thoughts so cloudy
by faithsette
Summary: 'Castle's chest tightens. This is her team, their team. She's family to them, so important that they're losing sleep and working themselves into the ground. He wonders how much of it is a pure desire to get justice for Beckett, and how much is a distraction.' AU after s2 finale.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : Inspired by an old prompt from castlefanficprompts, to be posted at the end of the story (though if you want to know beforehand, you can find it on my tumblr - acoldcomfort). There'll be ten chapters and it's all mostly written (barring the editing), so you can expect a chapter a week. I hope you guys enjoy and stick with me for this ride :)

* * *

 _Now my thoughts so cloudy and my heart's so crowded with pain_

\- 3:16am, Jhene Aiko

* * *

The first few weeks in the Hamptons are fun, filled with inspiration and opportunities to work out on the deck in the sunshine. Gina leaves after a week and a half, fed up with his inconsistency and inability to actually focus on said inspiration long enough to get out an acceptable chapter. He tells her he doesn't work well with her constant hovering and complaining—even though her presence was supposed to be nothing but a catalyst to kick him into high gear—and so she agrees to go back to the city, so long as he promises to write.

But now it's going on week eight and Richard Castle is _bored_.

His muse isn't cooperating, and he tries to convince himself that it's not because the human equivalent is nowhere in sight, but back in the city hunting down killers without him.

No, it's definitely not that. He's perfectly capable of formulating decent material for a few months without following her around. He scrubs his hands over his face with a sigh. _Decent_ is the operative word. It's all decent, sure, but it's not great. It's not what it could be, and despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, he knows it's because he misses the tall detective with sharp cheekbones that could kill him and piercing eyes, usually leveled in a glare in his general direction.

It's not all that fun out here by himself, he's decided, nowhere near as fun as working cases with the team is.

Working in the beautiful weather is no longer appealing, nor is working in general, and he just wants to get back to the precinct and help New York's finest put away some sleazy criminals.

He hasn't called anyone, especially not Beckett, unsure of whether or not she'd want to hear from him. He'd have no legitimate reason to call, anyway, no case-related theories to spin. They don't just call each other to say hi, that's not who they are, and they definitely don't call to express how much the other is missed. And so he's pushed back every urge to dial her number.

They've made a lot of progress since the Coonan case and he refuses to ruin that, to scare her away with too much.

He puts his laptop onto his desk, pushes the chair back and stands up, striding into the kitchen. The fridge is fully stocked and he grabs a handful of eggs, cheese, ham, and all of the seasonings necessary for the perfect omelette. He may not be able to write anything of substance at the moment, but he _can_ make the king of breakfast foods.

The ringing of his cell phone blares throughout the room and he lowers the heat on the stove, tosses the dish cloth over his arm as he moves to the counter.

His face breaks out into a smile when a familiar number pops up.

"Y'ello," he chirps, but the voice on the other end is not the one he was expecting.

"Castle."

"Lanie?" He grins. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

There's a brief pause. "I've got a bone to pick with you, writer boy, but that's not important right now." His nose scrunches up. Okay then. "You've got a right to know what I'm about to tell you."

His brows furrow. "What'd I do?" he asks, then shakes his head. "Never mind, what do I have a right to know?" He hears her take a deep breath, and there's a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Lanie, what's going on?"

"There's been an accident," she hedges.

She hasn't even said anything and his stomach is already in his throat, his heart beating erratically against the cage of his ribs. The only reason she'd be calling about an accident is if—

"Beckett," he rushes out. "Is it Beckett? What happened? Lanie…"

"I shouldn't give you the details over the phone," she says, and he's already back in the kitchen, turning off the stove and disregarding all of the open ingredients scattered on the counter as he makes a beeline for the front door. "There was a car accident, and it's—it doesn't look good, Castle."

The lack of usual pizzazz in her tone is concerning enough, but the break in her voice pushes his nerves over the edge.

"Is she—how is she—what—" He can't get anything out, can't think straight, the only thing echoing in his mind _Beckett_ and _car accident_.

Two things he never wanted to hear together in a sentence.

Lanie takes a breath. "I don't know what you're doing out there, but I'd… try to come back soon."

"Already in the car," he manages, throwing the car into reverse and peeling out of the driveway. "What hospital?"

He barely has the presence of mind to take note of the name, only just catches it before Lanie signs off with a sigh of _I'll see you there_ and he's speeding down the highway at what's probably a record high for him.

 _It doesn't look good, Castle._

Lanie's words play on repeat, taunt him until his foot's pressing just a bit harder on the gas. Beckett's face the last time he saw her, standing in the bullpen of the precinct with a soft "see you in the fall?" on her lips is the only thing he sees the whole way back.

* * *

He shaves half an hour off the time it'd normally take to get to the hospital and he pulls into the lot, parking haphazardly in the first open spot he finds. He doesn't bother making sure he's even inside the lines before he bolts from the car and rushes to the entrance. It's not until he's inside that he realizes Lanie didn't give him a room number, didn't tell him what floor she's actually on or what ward she's in. He has no real details, now that he thinks of it.

All he has to go off of is a car accident.

His eyes scan his surroundings, look down the visible hallways, and then he's jogging up to a front desk, trying to catch his breath as the lady looks up at him.

"Beckett," he breathes, hands curled around the linoleum surface. It's chilled beneath the pads of his fingers and he doesn't know if it's the desk or his body that's so cold.

"Sir?"

He blinks. "Beckett, Kate Beckett. Where is she?"

"What is she here for, sir?"

"Uh—car accident, she was in an accident. How is she? What floor is she on?"

The woman looks back from the computer. "Are you a relative?"

"I'm her partner," he rushes out, frantic eyes pleading with this woman to just tell him _something_. "Please."

She sighs, but her face softens as she takes him in, and she types something into the computer before catching his eyes once more.

"She's on the sixth floor," she says. "You'll have to ask the rest of your questions up there."

He's already a few feet away before he turns back, tossing a _thank you_ over his shoulder as an afterthought. The elevator ride takes what seems like hours, stopping at floors two and four to pick people up, and he bounces anxiously on the balls of his feet the entire time.

The elevator dings, the doors open, and he races out, stopping only because he doesn't know where he's going. Again.

He spins in a circle, trying to figure out which direction is the right one, when he hears a familiar voice.

"Castle," it calls out, and he turns to find Lanie coming towards him.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her. "Lanie," he manages. "Where is she? How is she? What happened?"

She shakes her head, tugs on his arm to guide him away from the elevators. "Come on, let's go somewhere else."

"Lanie," he tries again. "Please."

They stop in a small alcove, far enough from the patient rooms and the nurse's desk to give them some privacy. She turns to him then, her eyes no longer bright and vibrant like they were when he left, and offers what he assumes is her best attempt at a smile. It comes across more as a grimace, but he doesn't blame her.

"There was a car accident," she says, repeating the one piece of information he already knows. "She was running down a lead uptown and a truck ran the red light, t-boned her."

His mouth drops open. "The driver?"

"Drunk," she spits on a sigh. "His blood alcohol level was twice the legal limit."

Castle's fingers ball into fists at his side, his knuckles turning white. _Drunk_. Some asshole went out drinking, decided to get behind the wheel of his truck, and ran a red light. Plowed right into Beckett's cruiser, and—

"What side?" he asks suddenly, eyes on Lanie. "What side did he hit? Was it the passenger side?"

Please. If it had to hit one, please at least let it have been the passenger side.

She looks down, shaking her head. "Beckett's."

His breath hitches, eyes falling closed. "Where is he? Is he being charged? _Tell me_ he's being charged."

"The boys made sure of it," she assures him. "He won't be getting out of this, not with the DUI, reckless driving, and whatever else they manage to pile on."

He hesitates. "They won't be adding… they won't be adding vehicular manslaughter to that list, will they?" She's quiet before him, and he feels his heart drop. "Lanie, is she okay? How bad is it? Where is she? Is she awake? Can I see her?" He has a million questions and barely enough breath to ask them.

Lanie's eyes shine as she looks up at him. "I don't know, Castle. I don't know," she says, accompanied by a desperate shrug of her shoulders. "It doesn't look good. They're not sure of the damage that's been done because she's…"

"She's what?"

"She's in a coma, Castle."

His eyes widen, mouth open as all of the wind is knocked out of him. Tears threaten to prickle at the backs of his eyes, but he doesn't let them pass, won't let them come right now. He purses his lips, swallowing the lump in his throat as he glances down a hallway, imagining Beckett in one of those rooms.

A coma.

She's in a _coma_. His thoughts go wild, run a rampage in his mind because Beckett's not awake, not conscious at all, all because this person ran a red light. Whoever it was took matters into his own hands, and with it, Beckett's life. He wants to know if he's sitting in lockup, if there's any way he can pay one of the guards to let him in to kill him, or at the very least knock him out.

"How long?" is all he manages, his voice thick.

Lanie gives him a sympathetic look. "Three weeks."

"Three weeks?" he exclaims. "She's been in a coma for _three weeks_ and no one called me?"

"Listen, Castle, the boys—"

"Didn't think I should know that my partner—my _friend_ —was in an accident?"

She opens her mouth, a reply on the tip of her tongue, an explanation, when she's interrupted by yet another voice.

"Lanie, I—" Esposito stops when he sees Castle, his face hardening. "What's he doing here?"

"I called him."

Esposito bristles. "Why?"

"He deserved to know, Javi," she says. "He's her partner."

"Some partner," he mumbles.

Castle's brows furrow. "What did I do?"

Esposito turns to him then, stalks past Lanie. "What did you _do?_ You leave for two months and don't call, and you're asking what you did?"

And don't call? This is all because he didn't call while he's been gone?

Lanie steps in, puts a hand on his shoulder. "This is not the time."

"He deserves to know what he did," he counters, looking at Castle. "You left with your ex-wife on your arm, bro, you left Beckett—"

" _Javier_."

"Chica—"

She shakes her head, lowers her voice. "Don't you _chica_ me. This grudge you're holding against Castle ends now," she says firmly, leveling him with a glare. "Our girl is in there fighting for her life and she does not need you yelling out here. This is hard enough on all of us without you lashing out."

 _You left Beckett?_ He didn't leave her. Well, technically he did, but not for good. Not in a way with any finality. Just for the summer, a summer he offered her a spot at his Hamptons home and she turned down.

Esposito deflates seconds later, the fight draining out of him. "Fine," he says, turning to Castle. "Sorry, man."

"It's not Castle's fault," Lanie adds. "I'm sure he had a good reason for not calling." She looks pointedly at him. "Don't you?"

He splutters, mouth opening and closing. "I—I do," he says, though he's not sure he believes himself. He thought it was a good reason at the time, a safe reason, but now he wishes that he had, wants nothing more than to turn back to a few weeks ago and force himself to hit that speed dial, call Beckett and take the chance that she'd actually want to talk to him.

She nods. "Good. And while I'd love to hear that answer in the near future," she starts, raising a brow at him, "I need to go talk to one of the doctors about getting fluffier pillows for our girl. Javi, bring Castle in when you come."

Esposito nods, and they both watch her leave before he turns to Castle once more.

"I didn't mean to take it out on you, bro," he sighs, and Castle can see the bags under his eyes, the worry lines etched into his face. He understands. "These past three weeks with her in here, it's just been…"

"I get it," he cuts him off, shaking his head. "I'm a mess and I've only known for a few hours." He tries to laugh despite himself, but it doesn't quite work. "I can't imagine how you guys are holding up." He pauses. "How is she?"

"Bad," is the answer he gets, and he almost wishes he hadn't asked. "It's bad, Castle. Ryan's been working on building as big a case on the other driver as he can. It's been over a week, I don't think he's slept."

Everyone's working so hard to put this guy away, and Castle's chest tightens. This is her team, _their_ team. She's family to them, to the boys, Lanie, so important that they're losing sleep and working themselves into the ground.

He wonders how much of it is a pure desire to get justice for Beckett, and how much is a distraction, a way to keep them from focusing on the fact that Beckett's very much unresponsive in a hospital bed.

He can't blame them.

Esposito takes a breath, scrubs a hand down his face and steels himself, doesn't let the fatigue or emotions show any longer. He turns in the direction Lanie ventured not ten minutes ago, and then nods his head.

"Are you ready to go in?"

Is he ready? No. He's not even remotely ready, but he has to see her.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I'm ready."


	2. Chapter 2

She looks so small.

So very small, so much more like a child being swallowed up by blankets than the hard edged detective he's used to. He tries to look past the bruises on her face, the angry black and blue marks that canvas her skin, and focus on the fact that she's still breathing. But it's hard to do, so hard when there are wires attached to her body and running across the floor, connected to large machines, and a tube in her throat helping her breathe.

The accident as Lanie described plays in his mind and he can picture it. Beckett driving, the truck running through the red light, barreling into the intersection and right into the drivers side of her car. He winces at the thought of her being tossed around, her head slamming against the window on impact, no doubt where she got the long gash that sits above her left eye. It's covered by gauze, protected, but hints of red continue to peek through the material.

He takes a deep breath and walks further into the room, dislodging himself from the door frame where he's been standing for the past five minutes. There's a chair next to the bed and he sits down, eyes never leaving her body.

She looks like she's sleeping. Bruised, but sleeping, and he expects her to wake up, tell him that _staring's creepy, Castle_.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't move at all, save for the rise and fall of her chest.

He turns back to the door, watching doctors and nurses rush back and forth past the hallway. Esposito went to help Ryan, give him a reprieve and try to get him to sleep, and Lanie's gone back to the morgue to continue with her autopsies. They all take turns sitting with Beckett, never leaving her unattended, just in case. No one wants her to wake up alone.

So now he's added into the rotation, stationed at her bedside, but he doesn't think he wants to leave.

He sniffles, tries to blink back the tears that threaten to break free. It works for a while, but the longer he looks at her, takes in her injuries and her small body dwarfed by the too-big hospital bed, the less fight he has.

Tears fall from his eyes then, skate down his cheeks and blur his vision until Beckett's nothing but a hazy blob in front of him.

He swipes at his face, wiping away the moisture and taking a deep breath to collect himself. Blinking, he waits until she comes back into focus, no longer blocked by his watery vision, and then he stares. It's unashamed, and if she were awake he'd have been threatened by now, but he does it anyway. She's _here_. Marred with cuts and bruises, but still Beckett. Still the woman he wanted to accompany him to the Hamptons, the one he missed every day while he was out there, wishing that one of them would just pick up the phone.

He's kicking himself for not calling, for assuming she'd want anything but to talk to him during the summer. But she could've called too, if she wanted. Maybe she had the same thought process he did, waiting for him to call while he waited for her. He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it all, the constant circle that lands them in.

They're friends, he knows. He's tentative with it still, as he tries to work himself deeper into her life, but so much has changed over the past year. They're closer now, far closer than when he started shadowing her, and that progression is all he can really ask for.

His relationship with her, it's... it's something special.

It's special, and he thinks she might agree.

She's so pale, only a few shades darker than her hospital gown, and he makes a note to ask the doctor if that's normal.

He exhales, deep and shaky, and scoots the chair a little closer to the bed.

"Beckett," he whispers, trying his best to steady his voice. "I don't know if you can hear me, but they say that some coma patients can hear when they're spoken to, so it's worth a shot, right?" His eyes fall to his lap. "I'm so—I'm so sorry, Beckett. I should've called, or stayed, or... _something_. Maybe if I hadn't left..."

Maybe if he had stayed, tagged along on that lead, it would've played out differently. Maybe he would've delayed them in the bullpen for a mere ten extra seconds. Ten seconds that'd remove Beckett's cruiser from the intersection at the exact moment the truck ran through. Or maybe he would've convinced her to take a lunch break, causing them to head to the deli down the street instead of following the lead just then.

Shaking his head, he erases all of the what if scenarios. They do no help now, only cause his chest to tighten with a longing he can't rid himself of.

He clears his throat. "I should've been here for you, and I'm sorry. I'm your partner, your friend, and I didn't even—I didn't know what happened until Lanie called me."

There's a beeping and he jumps, hope soaring in his chest until he realizes it's coming from the hallway. It's not her machine making noise, picking up new activity, and she's still not responding. He sighs, swallowing the hope right back down.

Leaning forward, he hesitantly reaches his arm out, finds her hand and curls his fingers protectively around it. The hospital bracelet threatens to slide right off, the plastic too big for her tiny wrist, and he traces patterns on the soft skin between her index finger and thumb.

"I'm— _God_ , Beckett," he breathes. "I don't know what to do with you lying here. I feel so useless just _sitting_ here, but there's nothing I can do. I can't help, I can't wake you up and I just... you know how hard it is for me to sit still, Beckett." He lets out a small, humorless laugh despite his best attempt.

"I need you to wake up," he whispers, eyes watering again as he scans her face for any movement. "Please wake up, okay? You can pull through this. I know you can."

A knock on the door has him twisting, coming face to face with an older woman in a white overcoat.

"I'm Dr. Addison," she greets him, walking a bit further into the room. "Are you the boyfriend?"

He chuckles, shakes his head. "No—uh, no, I'm a friend."

"She's got a lot of those," the woman comments with a polite smile. "She's never alone. Must be a great woman."

Castle's face lights up, a real, soft smile appearing as he turns his gaze back to his partner. "Yeah, she really is."

He watches as she shines a light into both of Beckett's eyes, clicking it on and off, roaming it from side to side, and he waits with bated breath. He's seen this done in movies, on television, and he's sure that she's checking for activity.

When she's finished, tucking the light back into a pocket, he looks at her. "Anything?"

Her lips form a tight line, curling up slightly at the ends. "Not yet, honey," she says.

"She'll be okay though, right? She'll wake up?"

His hands wring in his lap, the question a big one, one he's not entirely sure he wants to know the answer to.

"There's no way to tell, definitively. Some patients wake up after a few hours, a day, and others take weeks, months, or even years." He knows she's leaving out that some patients never wake up, likely for his benefit, but he hears it lingering in the air. "But we have to have hope. I get the impression that she's a fighter."

"She is," he confirms immediately. Kate Beckett is nothing if not a fighter.

Dr. Addison gives him a smile. "Then all we can do is hope that she keeps fighting, and we'll fight to bring her back."

He tosses a _thank you_ to her as she leaves, making her way back out into the hallway and to the nurse's station with Beckett's chart, and then his full attention is back to the woman in front of him.

Nothing's changed, but he won't lose hope.

"Keep fighting, Beckett," he whispers. "Please don't give up."

Taking a deep breath, he moves in until his knees kiss the edge of the bed and grips her fingers between both of his palms. As thrilling as it is to be able to finally hold her hand, he'd always hoped she'd be awake and conscious for it, a willing participant.

"You're so strong, Kate," he murmurs, voice breaking apart around the syllable of her name. "So strong."

* * *

The coffee in the cafeteria downstairs is pretty awful, probably one step above the precinct's old monkey peed in battery acid, but he refuses to leave the hospital for some real coffee. The nearest coffee shop is a few blocks away, not all that far but farther than he's willing to go.

It's been a few hours since he's arrived, and he's finally relented and come to get some caffeine. He hasn't really eaten, so he knows he should get something, but his appetite is nonexistent. He can't even think about eating right now, not with the very real knowledge that Beckett is a few floors above him, lying in a hospital bed.

He's sitting at one of the tables by himself, hands curled around the to go cup. Heat radiates from the surface, warms his chilled fingers, but he's still cold. Sighing, he takes a look around. Most of the tables are empty, save for a few here and there with one or two other hospital goers. A couple of nurses take their break in the corner, too, and he notices them staring before he averts his eyes.

His phone vibrates against the wood, and his eyes fall when he notices the caller ID.

He hasn't exactly told Alexis that he's back yet, that he left the Hamptons and is now in a hospital.

"Hi, Pumpkin," he greets, as upbeat as he can for his daughter.

"Hey, dad." The girl's voice is happy, and he hates that he has to ruin that. "How's writing going?"

He pauses. "About that—"

"You _have_ been writing, haven't you? Dad, Gina's going to resurrect her threat about the fire ants on your eyeballs."

He chuckles. "No, no it's not that. I did write."

"That's great," Alexis says, then continues at his silence. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm okay," he says by way of explanation. "I'm fine, okay? But I'm at the hospital—"

Alexis gasps. "Hospital? What's wrong? Why are you at the hospital?"

"There's been an accident," he tells her slowly. He knows she's about to cut in, so he does it for her. "Beckett's been in an accident."

"Oh, dad," she whispers. "Is she okay?"

He shakes his head. "It isn't looking too good." He wishes that he could tell her it's fine, that Beckett will be okay and there's nothing to worry about, but he can't. "A drunk driver plowed into her car. She's been... in a coma."

He can hear her sharp intake of breath. "A coma? Oh god, Detective Beckett. I'm sorry, dad." There's a pause. "Are you okay?"

He smiles at that, the concern from his daughter even though he's not the one who's been in an accident. Physically, he's fine. Emotionally, he's been better.

"I'll be okay," he says, decides against lying to her and saying he's alright. Because he's not right now. "I've been sitting with her for a few hours, but I'm in the cafeteria now. This mechanical oil is an atrocious impostor for coffee."

Alexis manages a laugh. "I can bring you real coffee if you want," she offers. "Maybe I'd be able to see her. If that's okay, of course. I just—"

"I know," he interrupts. She looks up to Beckett, he knows, and this isn't going to be easy on her either. "Maybe tomorrow, okay? And I'll take you up on your offer for the coffee, too."

"Done," she says. "Are you staying with her?"

His mouth opens, then closes. It hadn't even crossed his mind that he'd leave. Staying with Beckett is the only thing on he can think to do, keeping her company while she sleeps. She may be completely unaware that anyone's even there, but he doesn't want to leave her.

"It's okay, dad," Alexis says after a few seconds. "I get it. Someone should be there with her."

Bless this kid. "You'll keep an eye on gram?"

Alexis huffs. "Of course." She takes a breath. "How does she look?" she asks quietly.

His eyes close. "Not great, but pretty decent for someone who was t-boned," he admits. "There are bruises and cuts from the crash, but I'm sure the worst of it can't be seen."

It hits him then. He has no idea what other damage has been done, what other injuries she has. Are there broken ribs? Other broken bones? Internal bleeding? His mind races, thinking of the worst possible scenarios, and he feels sick. He'll have to ask Lanie, since he's sure a doctor won't be able, or willing, to tell him much of anything.

"She'll be okay, dad," his daughter says then, confident. "Beckett's strong."

He doesn't want to drag her hopes down, so he just nods. "You're right. She is strong." He takes a deep breath. "I'm gonna go toss this poor excuse for coffee, okay? Let gram know I won't be back tonight."

"I will," she says. "Tell me if anything happens?"

He smiles. "Will do."

"Love you, dad."

"Love you, too," he breathes before hanging up.

Taking one last sip of coffee, his face scrunching up at the bitter taste, he stands, throwing the cup into the trash before making his way back towards the exit. He wanders slowly through the hall on his way to the elevator, mind whirling.

There's so much happening, but the first thing on his agenda is getting back to her floor and finding one of the night nurses. He knows they'll fight him, tell him that visiting hours are over at nine and that he can't stay, but he'll fight back. Beckett's fighting for her life, and he'll fight to be there for her while she does.

All he really needs is a blanket, anyway, and he'll go without it if he has to.

The floor is empty when he gets there, patients now in their rooms instead of taking strolls down the halls, and he makes his way to the nurses station. As expected, he's met with resistance when he asks for an extra blanket, but they must take pity on his poor, down turned face because the woman eventually relents, gives him a softened expression. And a blanket.

Back in Beckett's room, he takes a seat in the chair once more, opening the coarse sheet across his lap.

Her hand is cradled by his once more, his fingers brushing against her knuckles, and he decides to do what he does best. He tells her a story. He makes it up as he goes, making it as interesting and vivid as he possibly can just in case she really can hear him. He knows she's in there somewhere, and he hopes his words do some good, help her tether herself to reality.

He falls asleep a hours later, head craned against the back of the chair and his fingers still curled around hers.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm honestly overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter. And to those of you with PM disabled and guest reviews I couldn't reply to personally, thank you. I hope you enjoy the rest of this journey as well. Also, just to clarify, this isn't a tragedy/death fic, so no worries :)


	3. Chapter 3

He only leaves, albeit reluctantly, when Lanie forces him to, practically drags him out of the chair he's been in for three days and pushes him out the door with an order to shower and grab clean clothes. She promises to stay with Beckett while he's gone, and gives him a soft, understanding smile.

"I've got her, Castle," she says. "Go shower. I'd say just get changed, but I know you don't plan on leaving her side so bring a duffle bag with you, okay?"

Rubbing a hand down his face, he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay," he agrees, stealing one last glance past Lanie.

She nudges his shoulder, turning him around. "Go, writer boy. You know Beckett wouldn't want you moping all dirty like this."

"Writer man," he mumbles, not nearly as upbeat or teasing as it usually is, but he tries. Lanie and the boys are trying to be positive, even as they're losing sleep agonizing over the possibilities, wondering what else they can do, and so he's trying, too.

For them, for himself, and for Beckett.

Slipping into the car, he forces himself to drive to the loft significantly slower than he did on the way to the hospital. There's no real rush now that Lanie's with Beckett and he knows she's not alone, but he doesn't want to be away longer than he has to.

He still manages to go over the speed limit, and he pulls into the parking garage twenty minutes later. He greets Eduardo in the lobby, giving him a small nod as he makes his way to the elevators.

The loft is empty when he enters, and he figures Alexis and his mother must've gone out for the afternoon. He sighs, striding into the kitchen to make himself an actual cup of coffee. While the pot heats up he heads into the bedroom, picks out a few pairs of jeans from his drawers and grabs a handful of shirts to go along with them. The essentials are all thrown into a duffle bag—toothbrush, his laptop, and book or two to keep him occupied at Beckett's bedside.

Zipping the bag, he leaves it on the edge of the bed before making his way into the bathroom. The shower comes to life when he turns the knob and he steps back, looks into the mirror. He looks tired and pained, bags forming beneath his eyes due to the lack of sleep. The bedside chair he's claimed as his own isn't exactly comfortable, and he hasn't had a full nights sleep since he got to the hospital.

It seems he just can't stay asleep, can't rest when he's waking up every couple of hours to check on the woman next to him, see if there's been any change in her condition. Lanie's managed to find out the extent of her injuries; three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, a partially collapsed lung—which they've managed to re-inflate, thankfully—and a fractured ankle.

He'll sleep once she's okay.

He backs away from the mirror, can't look at his reflection much longer, and strips, letting his clothes fall into a pile at his feet. Stepping into the shower, he hisses at the scalding water that hits his skin, but he toughs it out, lets his body acclimate to the heat until it's a pleasant burn. It pounds into his back, loosens some of the knots between his shoulder blades.

Fingers comb through his hair as he lathers it, rinsing out the shampoo and conditioner in a timely manner. It feels good now, the stream of hot water on his skin. It's thawing him, and he turns, lets it hit against his chest. He puts his head under the spray, running his hands down his face.

There's no place he'd rather be than at her side, which his why he hates leaving. Lanie and the boys come in too, force him down to the cafeteria for food or just for a walk to get some fresh air. Someone's always there, and now that he thinks about it, the only person he hasn't seen show up is Demming. He's pretty sure if it were _his_ girlfriend lying in a hospital bed, he'd be there everyday. He already is, but that's not the point; he's not her boyfriend, and yet he's the one stationed at her bedside.

Maybe he showed up when it first happened, sat by her side like a doting boyfriend, but has since been called away on some important cop duty.

He shakes his head, shoving away thoughts of Demming holding Beckett's petite hands in his, kissing her knuckles. Instead, he lets the water cascade down his back as he closes his eyes. There has to be something he can do, something _someone_ can do. He feels useless, wandering around, moping and just hoping that she'll wake up.

The more he thinks about it, the more he wishes he could be of more help in some way. In any way. But he supposes that just being there with her is enough.

It has to be.

He's not sure how long he stands in the shower, only that his fingers begin to prune before he drags himself out, dries off, and changes into his clothes. Lanie was right, he does feel much better now that he's clean and somewhat refreshed. He's been using the hospital bathroom to splash water on his face—Beckett's room doesn't have a full shower, and he's not really a fan of the half-seat thing going on in there—and freshen up the best he could, but it doesn't quite compare to a real shower in his own bathroom.

In the bedroom, he tosses the duffle bag over his shoulder and strides back into the kitchen with it, grabbing a thermus out of the cabinet to take his coffee to go. The taste explodes on his tongue, has him releasing a contented sigh, no matter how short lived. His first instinct is to make a second cup for Beckett, bring her coffee like he does every day just to see that smile on her face, but he stops himself.

He'd kill to see a smile on her face right now.

Hell, he'd even be happy for a glare, an eye roll, an exasperated huff and a purse of her lips.

Turning off the coffee pot, he makes sure he has all of the necessities before making his way out of the loft once more.

* * *

Strolling into the hospital room, he watches as Lanie sits beside Beckett, talking to her in a hushed tone.

He clears his throat. "Hey, Lanie."

She turns at the sound of his voice and stands, moving towards him. "Looking alive," she says. "Much better after the shower."

"Feel a little better too," he admits with a small smile. His eyes trail past her and to the bed. "Any change?"

Lanie gives a sympathetic smile. "No change," she shakes her head. "Her heart rate's still steady, though, and she looks like she could be breathing on her own. This is good, Castle."

"But it's not enough," he says suddenly, surprised by it himself. "She needs to—Lanie, she needs to wake up."

She grabs his bag from his shoulder, placing it against the wall. "I know," she says quietly. "I want her to wake up just as badly as you do. Girl's my best friend." Lanie lowers her eyes, turning over her shoulder to glance at the woman in question. "But it's—I will be here every day until she does, but we have to know there's a very real possibility that she won't."

It tears him apart, has his heart cracking in his chest, sadness curling around his ribs.

She may not wake up. He may never be able to see her eyes sparkle at him again, or that adorable smile she tries to hide whenever he brings her a bear claw and her coffee.

He might not have the chance to tell her how her feels, tell her that he—

 _Love_ springs to the tip of his tongue and it hits him, catches him off guard just how much he needs this, for her to know. Whether or not she reciprocates those feelings, it doesn't matter. He refuses to let her die under any circumstances, but especially not without knowing how loved she is.

"Castle."

He shakes his head, directs his attention back to Lanie. "I'm sorry, I—what do we do if she doesn't wake up, Lanie?" he asks in a whisper, his voice shaking. "I don't know if I can..."

"I know," she says, bringing one of her hands to his shoulder. "I know, Castle."

Lanie pulls him into a hug and he goes willingly, tries to muffle the sob that wants to come out. He knows she's right, knows there's a possibility that Beckett won't wake up, but he has to believe that she will.

If he accepts her bleak fate, accepts that she may not be coming back, it'll only be worse.

"I'll leave you here," she says as she pulls back. "Talk to her, Castle. She won't admit it, but she likes hearing your wild stories. I think she could use one right about now."

He nods, and she gives him a watery smile, a comforting hand brushing against his upper arm.

As she moves to walk out of the room, he hesitates. "Lanie?" She turns back. "Where's Demming? I mean... I haven't seen him since I've gotten here."

She sighs, and he watches the way she purses her lips. "Demming won't be coming by," she says after a few moments.

His brows furrow. "What?" Anger bubbles in his veins. "His girlfriend is lying in a coma and he _won't be coming by?_ What kind of ass—"

"He's not her boyfriend," Lanie cuts him off quietly. His mouth opens on a surprised _oh_. "I shouldn't be the one telling you this, but... she broke up with him before summer."

"She... Oh, I—okay." He doesn't know what else to say, so he just nods. "Okay."

Knowing she's no longer with Demming is oddly hopeful, makes it easier for him to tell her how he feels. Eventually. He wants her to know, of course, but he wouldn't have done it while she was with another man. No, that's not something he'd do, not a situation he'd put either of them in. He would have waited, patiently, until the right time came.

Now all she has to do is wake up, and maybe he'll get his chance. When the time is right, when he won't scare her away with it all.

"Talk to her," Lanie repeats as she gives him one last soft smile and disappears into the hallway.

His feet don't move for the first couple seconds, instead keeping him rooted just feet from the doorway. He brings his gaze to Beckett, still in the same spot he left her a few hours ago, and makes his way back over to her. The chair is further away now, so he moves it closer, brings it back to his designated spot across from her waist.

 _Talk to her, Castle_.

"Hey, Beckett," he starts slowly. "It's been three days now. Three days since I got the call from Lanie that you've been in an accident, and three days since I've left this hospital." He pauses, chuckling. "Well, no. Lanie made me go home earlier to shower and change. It was for the best, I'll admit. I was pretty disgusting, so it's a good thing you can't see me."

His eyes roam her body, noting the rise and fall of her chest, a contrast to the complete stillness taking over the rest of her body. "I miss you, Kate," he admits, his voice quiet. He's not sure if he should be saying this, if he's crossing some kind of line. But she might not even be able to hear him. He could be talking to an empty room, to a void. At least he'll be able to get it all out, in any case. "I missed you in the Hamptons too, you know. I understand why you didn't go, I do, but I missed you. We've been working together for two years now, and I'm—you're my friend, Beckett. I wanted to call, but I wasn't sure if I should."

He takes a breath. "Which is odd, you know, since we _are_ friends. But I just... I didn't want to call and scare you off, not after we've made so much progress this year. So I didn't. I didn't call, and then you get into this accident and now I don't know if I'll be able to—" He stops himself, unable to even finish his sentence.

"I need you to come back, Beckett," he murmurs, curling a hand around her wrist. "Please wake up, please come back. For the boys, for Lanie. For me. I... care about you, okay?"

He does care about her, so much it's almost frightening. His eyes threaten to well up and he squeezes them shut, pushes it all aside and opts to think about it later, not now.

Letting his forehead fall into his open palms, his elbows braced on his thighs, his fingers apply pressure to his eyes. He's not sure how long he's been sitting like that when he hears a soft knock against the door frame.

His head pops up, and he turns to find his mother and Alexis standing in the doorway.

Eyes wide, he furrows his brows. "What are you guys doing here?"

"I'm making good on my offer for coffee," Alexis tells him, walking carefully into the room and handing him a fresh cup. His, admittedly, has already gone cold. "And I wanted to see how Detective Beckett was doing. I hope that's okay?"

He tugs her into his side, wrapping his arms around her back. "Of course it's okay, Pumpkin. Thank you." He looks over Alexis's shoulder. "Mother, thank you for bringing her."

She waves an arm. "Nonsense, darling. I wanted to see how Katherine was doing too." He watches as his mother casts her gaze to the bed. "How is she?"

"No change," he sighs, pulling Alexis closer to him. Her arm bands around his back as she leans into his side.

"But she'll wake up, right?" she asks, twisting to look at her father. "They say she'll wake up?"

He looks into the concerned blue of her eyes, giving her a soft smile. "They don't know. They said to have hope, but to—to know that there's a chance..."

"Don't go there," his mother says, shaking her head. "Katherine Beckett is not one to give up easily. She'll get through this."

Not having the heart or energy to argue with her, to deny what she's saying, he just nods, gives a smile. He hopes she's right. _God_ , does he hope she's right.

"She looks like she's sleeping," Alexis says, moving away from his side and slowly towards the bed. She's careful, doesn't touch or jostle Beckett, but rests her palm on the edge of the bed. Her voice is soft. "Just... sleeping."

"I know," he agrees. "She looks peaceful. Aside from the bruising and bandages, of course."

Alexis takes a deep breath, then turns back to him. "Dad," she whispers, and he can see it on her face.

He stands. "Come here," he says, opening his arms, waiting for her to curl into them. "It'll be okay."

He says it without thinking, but he has to believe it. If not for himself now, he needs it to be okay for Alexis. She's just as worried about Beckett as he is. He wouldn't say they're _close_ , but ever since she helped out on that one case, ever since she's been going to Beckett occasionally for advice and girl talk, they've been closer.

"I just want her to be okay," she mumbles into his shirt, and _oh_ , this kid. She looks up at him. "I care about her too."

Castle nods. "I know you do."

Alexis's eyes light up. "Oh! Can I go down to the gift shop?" He gives her a questioning look, and she shrugs. "I figure... everyone likes flowers when they wake up, right? I'm sure they'll have some nice ones."

He grins, pulling her into one last hug and squeezing. "I think she'd like that, Alexis."

Alexis beams then. "I'll be back," she says, moving past her grandmother and out the door.

The facade drops once she's gone, and Martha comes to his side, places a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not easy, kiddo."

He shakes his head. "So far from easy," he concurs, raking a hand down his face. "She's always so tough, so strong, and to see her like this... in this bed, so small... it's not right."

"No it's not," she agrees. "She shouldn't be here. It shouldn't have happened. But it did."

"And now Alexis is worried about her too and I just—I don't know what to do. All I _can_ do is sit here and keep her company, and what if that's not enough? What if something happens and the last thing she saw me do was walk out of the precinct with my ex-wife on my arm?"

His mother shakes her head. "Don't do that. Being here with her is plenty enough. You're not a doctor, Richard, there's nothing else you could possibly do."

"I know, I know," he sighs. "It just feels so..."

"Useless," she supplies, and he nods. "I know. But it's not. Whether she can hear you or not, that girl appreciates you being here for her right now and you know that."

He does know. Beckett's stubborn, probably wouldn't admit it, but his support is something he knows that she appreciates.

A silence falls over the room, Alexis still at the gift shop and the two of them sitting beside Beckett.

"Does she know?"

His mother's voice catches him off guard. "What?"

She gives him a knowing smile. "How you feel," she clarifies. "Does she know?"

He opens his mouth, eyes widening, but then he closes it. "I—"

"Do _you_ know how you feel?"

"Mother."

"Okay, okay," she concedes. "Just let me ask you this, kiddo. Do you think you love her?"

He inhales a sharp breath, looking from his mother to Beckett. His fingers itch to reach out, wrap themselves around her smaller ones, cocoon them and keep them safe. He pictures the stunning hazel of her eyes, the scowl of her lips when he does something ridiculous, the brightness of her smile when she laughs.

"No," he shakes his head. "I know I do."

* * *

I can't thank you guys enough for your support and enthusiasm for this one. You're all amazing.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a week and not too much has changed. Because she seems to be breathing on her own, they've taken out the breathing tube as a trial run. It's been two days since then and she hasn't needed the tube again, so he takes this as a sign, a little hint from her body that she's getting better. Her heart rate is still strong, and he's noticed peaks in it sometimes, slight irregular beats when he's telling her a story or talking to her. It makes his heart soar, excitement filling his chest. The doctors tell him it's unusual but not unheard of, and he's made it a point to talk more often, to regale her with anything he can think of, from mundane daily activities to outlandish tales.

He'll sing the phone book to her if it means she'll show some kind of response.

He's been by her side every day still, only leaving to get clean clothes and shower. His mother and Alexis stop by occasionally too, usually after Alexis is out of school, to bring him some decent coffee and maybe a burger from Remy's. He couldn't be more grateful that they understand his decision to stick with Beckett as long as he can. He'll have to do something for them as a thank you.

A few days ago he was positive he'd seen her eyelids flutter and his heart almost flew out of his chest. He'd called the doctors, yelled for one of the nurses, and hovered behind them as they checked her vitals. Turns out it wasn't much of anything.

They'd all given him sympathetic smiles, tossed similar _it's an easy mistake_ sentiments his way as they walked out of the room. He knows they're the doctors, that they're pretty knowledgeable about all of this stuff—more so than he is—but he's absolutely certain that they fluttered. There was movement, however small, and he knows it wasn't just a trick of the mind.

He keeps a closer eye on her now, and even though it's been days with little to no more movements, he'll be sure he catches them if there are.

Sitting in his usual chair, he leans his elbows on his knees, eyes moving from the page in front of him to Beckett. He's run out of things to talk about at the moment, got too tired of throwing around wild theories about things that his heart just isn't in.

Turns out crazy theories aren't as fun when Beckett isn't around to bounce back at him.

So instead, he's taken to reading the interesting parts of the paper—the comics, of course—and other books. Right now he's about thirteen chapters into _And Then There Were None_ by Agatha Christie.

"'One of us...one of us...one of us'," he reads from the page, his voice just loud enough so that she can hear him if she's listening. "'Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains. Five people—five frightened people. Five people who watched each other, who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension.'"

He tries to read as animatedly as he can, keeping his voice deep and spooky to fit with the tone of the genre. "'There was little pretense now—no formal veneer of conversation. They were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preservation.'"

This has always been one of his favorite mysteries, and he wonders if Beckett's ever read it before. It's somewhat of a classic, one book he assumes most people have heard of if not read themselves.

"'He said in a low voice: I know I did... Well, I was wrong. Here's one more of us who's been proved innocent—too late!'" he trails off, finishing the chapter and closing the book.

He places it on the small table beside him and turns back to Beckett, lets a small smile tug at the corners of his lips as he looks at her. It's peaceful, in a weird way, sitting here, reading to her. Of course, it'd be better if she was awake and an active participant in this reading, adding her own comments as he narrates, but it's become soothing.

It's been almost three months since he's talked to his partner, since he's heard her voice and watched her roll her eyes in his general direction.

He misses her. There's an ache in his chest when he thinks about the time that's passed, about how he's partly at fault for their lack of communication for those first two months.

She deserves more. Everything.

Emotions twist in his stomach, slither around his ribs and pitch a tent. The sharp rise and fall of her chest grounds him, forces him to remember that she's _here_ , alive and—not exactly _well_ , but alive. And that's what's important.

He inches the chair closer, having moved it during his reading so he wasn't on top of her, and sighs. His hand comes out and finds hers once more, fingers closing around her hand in what's become a routine movement.

"It's been a week now," he breathes. "Sometimes it feels like I just got the call and rushed down here yesterday, but it feels most like I've been sitting beside you for months. Seven days seems like an eternity when you're lying there."

His thumb traces small circles on her skin, transferring some of his warmth and comfort to her. She needs it more than he does.

He rests his head on the edge of the bed, lets his eyes close as his fingers continue their ministrations. His breathing evens out and he feels himself doze off, the lack of sleep he's been getting now finally catching up to him.

His dream is beautiful. Beckett's sitting next to him in a booth at Remy's, a smile on her face and a chocolate milkshake shared between them. Her hand finds his and links their fingers together, her eyes falling to her lap as her head dips, the curtain of her hair covering her face.

It's so vivid, so real that he can feel her hand gently squeezing his.

He opens his eyes slowly after some time, blinking the sleep away and groaning when he realizes the position his neck is in. But something's different. There's something... it's still here, the sensation of their intertwined fingers, of her fingers moving against his palm. His gaze trails to his hand, and his head shoots up, eyes wide.

It's real. Her fingers are twitching against his hand, tapping lightly against his skin.

"Beckett?" he says in a rushed exhale, turning to look at her. "Beckett, can you hear me?"

Her fingers twitch.

"Kate! Kate, hold—hold on, okay?"

He rushes away from her bedside, though the last thing he wants to do is break contact, and goes into the hall. "Someone, please—uh, she's..." He stops, runs to the nurse's station and gets the attention of one of them. "I think she's waking up—"

"Sir, her fluttering eyelids don't mean that she's waking up," she says. "It's a normal function that happens in coma patients."

" _No_ ," he says, probably more firmly than necessary. "Her fingers moved. I was holding her hand and talking to her and her fingers brushed against mine."

She still doesn't look all that convinced, and a part of him can't really blame her. But it has to be for real this time. Her fingers haven't moved before, not while he's been here. This is so much more than just some "normal" eye movement.

He leads the nurse back into the room and immediately takes his spot once more, standing next to Beckett this time and reclaiming her fingers in his. Her eyes are still closed, but they flutter, as if she's in the midst of her own dream.

"What is it? Is she waking up?" he asks.

The nurse takes out another small light, similar to the one Dr. Addison used, and shines it in Beckett's eyes. He wants to tell her to back up, to at least give her some space and avoid shining it so close, but he keeps his mouth shut while she does her job.

"She's responding to the light." Her voice is high, surprised, as if she really didn't believe that he'd been right. "And you said her fingers were moving?" He nods. "This is a good sign," she says. "A very good sign."

He can't help the smile that breaks across his face. It's a good sign. Something's happening here, she's responding to the light and her fingers are still gently sliding against his. She's still fighting.

The nurse leaves to find the doctor, but he doesn't move at all. He stands beside her, lifts her hand and cradles it between both of his palms.

"Beckett," he tries again, softly. "Come on, Kate, you can do it. You're doing so well. Keep fighting, okay?" He takes a breath, fighting against the tears that want to fall down his cheeks. He won't cry, not right now. "Wake up, Kate. Please."

His voice is calm, soothing, and it takes all of him to keep it steady. If she can hear him, she doesn't need to hear the trembling, the nerves seeping into every word he speaks. He can't tear his eyes off of her, and he watches as her eyelids flutter some more, quicker than they were before.

They twitch, flitter, and then they're opening. Slowly, barely even open at all, still hooded and heavy, but she's blinking. She's blinking and he breathes in sharply, tightens his grip on her hand.

The doctor walks in then and he spins, looks to Dr. Addison as she approaches the bed.

"She's waking up," he says quickly, but the doctor barely acknowledges his statement as she moves to check her vitals.

"Miss Beckett?" she says softly. "Miss Beckett, can you hear me?"

Beckett's eyes continue to blink open until she's squinting, staring up at nothing in particular for a few seconds before she focuses on the doctor. She looks confused, not entirely aware of what's going on, but he wants to sob. He barely registers anything, too busy staring at her and finally letting the tears of joy slide down his cheeks because she's here and she's _awake_.

"Miss Beckett?" Dr. Addison tries again, quietly. "Can you nod if you hear me?" Beckett stares at her, a dazed look still in her eyes. But she nods. "Good, that's good."

The woman turns to Castle then, nods for him to follow her to the doorway. A nurse stays with Beckett, talking quietly to her. "This is promising," she says, a small smile on her face. "We need to run some tests to see what's going on, what damage has been done by the blunt force trauma, but she's responding and it's clear that she hears us."

"Do you know why she woke up now?" he asks. He's thrilled that she's awake, shouldn't be questioning it—and he's not, not really—but he doesn't know _why_.

Dr. Addison shakes her head. "No," she says honestly. "There were no solid indications that she'd wake up soon. But you said she's a fighter, Mr. Castle. She fought."

"Yeah," he breathes, turning back to Beckett. "Yeah, she really is."

"Sometimes hope goes a long way."

She leaves to order some tests, and he makes his way back to her bedside, joining the nurse.

Beckett's eyes finally meet his, and his breath catches in his throat. She opens her mouth, tries to say something but nothing comes out but a rough squeak, her voice gravely from disuse. He reaches beside him for the plastic cup of water—they've started giving him a pitcher so he didn't have to constantly go down to the cafeteria for coffee—and grabs an unopened straw, sticking it in before handing it to her.

"Here, some water." Her arms twitch, no doubt trying to pick up the cup, but they're still heavy and so he holds it for her, angles the straw so it gets her mouth. "Careful."

She nods when she's done. "What...happened?" she breathes out.

"You don't remember anything?" the nurse asks, and Castle's eyes go from her to Beckett, watching as she slowly shakes her head. "Okay."

She turns her head towards Castle, her eyes squinted.

She doesn't remember the accident. That's normal, though, isn't it? Memory loss after a traumatic event? But she remembers everything else, though. Right? She's looking at him funny and his stomach drops.

Does she not remember him?

"Do you—do you remember me?" he asks quietly, his heart in his throat as he waits for an answer.

Her brows furrow, a look of confusion on her face, and _oh god_ , she doesn't remember. He darts his gaze to the nurse, a panicked, worried expression on his face. Why doesn't she—

"Of course I... remember you, Castle," she rasps, and the knots in his chest loosen. The nurse gives him an amused look and makes her way back out of the room, no doubt looking for the doctor to confirm the tests she'll need. "What happened?"

He takes a breath, just now realizing that he's still holding her hand. He doesn't let go. "Maybe we should wait until they run some tests..."

"Castle," she manages. She's still pale, voice still thick and sounding like sleep, and she still looks so small. But she's talking, however quiet, and he can still hear the very Beckett inflection when she says his name.

"You were in a car accident," he sighs, taking a seat but keeping his hand around hers. He does his best to avoid jostling her, bringing attention to where they're making contact, lest she notice and pull away. "You were running down a lead, do you remember?"

"Kind of," she whispers, wetting her lips.

"A drunk driver ran the red light, slammed into the cruiser. He hit... he hit your side."

Her mouth parts, eyes wide, and she breathes out. She tries to move, but her bones are sore and she winces when she twists her torso, hisses in pain.

"Try not to move, Beckett," he says. "You have a few broken ribs."

She looks down, notices the small cast on her left wrist they'd put on when she arrived and the way her leg is elevated, a light cast on her ankle as well. "Feels like it," she mumbles. "Hurts—hurts to breathe."

Worry fills his features, but he puts his hand on her blanket-covered knee. "You had a collapsed lung," he tells her. "They re-inflated it, but it'll probably hurt for a while."

She grimaces. "How long—how long have I been here?"

His face falls, eyes filling with tears that he tries to blink away. "You were in a coma, Kate," he whispers.

"A... coma?"

He nods. "For a month."

She tries to move again, sits up with the shock, but her body protests. Her limbs won't move like he knows she wants them to, both because of the disuse and because of her injuries. He gives her a look, leaning forward to gently settle her back against the pillows.

"A _month?_ "

All he can do is give another nod, a small _yeah_. She looks away from him, stares blankly out the door and into the hallway. He can see her face change as she takes it all in, the sharp breath she takes—and the wince that accompanies it.

He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn't know what to say now that she's awake and knows what's happened. So he just slides his thumb over her fingers, glides it in small, calming patterns.

The doctor comes back in a few seconds later, bringing with her two nurses.

"We're going to take you for some tests now, okay? Make sure everything's okay up there," she says, motioning to Beckett's head.

She nods, eyes cutting to Castle as they wheel her away and he's forced to let go.

"I'll be here when you get back," he says quietly, his heart lifting at the small smile and nod she manages for him as she disappears out the door.

He takes a breath, letting the sob that he's been holding back finally wrack his body. He refuses to let her see him cry; she has enough to deal with without adding his emotions into the mix. His hands rake down his face, fingers digging into his eyes. Taking a deep, calming breath, he steels himself as he sniffles. His head shakes as he tries to compose himself.

It's just so much. He wasn't sure he'd even see her again and here she is, in pain and confused, but _awake_ and _talking_.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and presses one of his most recent contacts.

"Lanie?"

"Castle? What's wrong?" Lanie's voice booms through the phone. "Why are you crying? Oh god, Kate—"

Disguising the tears in his voice obviously didn't go as planned.

"She's awake," he rushes out. "Lanie, she's awake."

Lanie's squeal is loud but he doesn't care, and he hears her mumble something about being on her way amongst all of the rustling on the other end. He hangs up and collapses back into the chair, waiting patiently for Beckett to get back from her tests.

* * *

The test results take longer than he'd have liked, but they come back as normal as they can given the circumstances. Thankfully, nothing in her head has been permanently damaged. Her ribs, wrist, and ankle are the only broken and fractured bones. The bruises and cuts covering her face and arms look the worst, though he's sure the ribs hurt most.

He's sitting beside her, keeping a companionable silence, when Lanie and the boys burst into the room.

"Kate," she exclaims, coming up to her other side, wrapping a tentative arm around her shoulder. "God, girl, don't do that to us ever again."

"Yeah, Beckett. It's been a rough month," Esposito says.

"I'm glad you're okay, Beckett," Ryan adds, giving her a genuine smile.

Beckett smiles back at her friends. "Thanks guys," she exhales. "I'll do my best to avoid this next time."

"Anyone want coffee or a sandwich?" Castle asks, standing from his chair. "I'm gonna head down to the cafeteria."

"A coffee would be great," Esposito nods. "Thanks, bro."

He nods. "Ryan? Lanie?" They shake their heads with a polite decline, and he notices Beckett staring at him. "I don't think you can have coffee yet, Beckett. How about some water?"

She huffs but eventually nods. "Thanks, Castle."

The three of them talk to Beckett, assure her that Montgomery is only concerned that she gets back on her feet and not how quickly she does so. Of course, Beckett being... well, _Beckett_ , she already wants to get back to work, bypass the physical therapy and recovery she knows she'll need.

"How you really feeling?" Lanie asks.

Beckett scoffs. "Like I got hit by a bus," she says. "Though apparently that's not too far off." The boys wince. "Sorry."

"We're sorry, Beckett," Ryan says.

Esposito sighs, nodding. "You shouldn't have been on your own. Maybe if we were with you..."

"You guys would've been hit too," she points out quietly. "I'm glad you weren't. I'm—"

"Don't say fine."

"I'll _be_ fine," she amends, giving them a pointed look. "Don't beat yourselves up about it. Go see where Castle is with those drinks, will you?"

The boys exchange a look but nod. "Probably got lost by the vending machines," Espo quips as he drags Ryan out with him. "We'll find him."

"Hey, guys," she says suddenly, just before they pass the doorway. "Where... where's my dad?"

Espo smiles. "Already called, said he'd be here later tonight," he promises, and she nods. "He was here when you were first called in, but we all told him you'd want him to keep working, so we've been giving him daily updates."

She can't help the barely there smile. She has no doubt her dad would've been here, day by day, if not for the boys insistence. And she's glad they did because they're right; the last thing she'd want is for him to wallow in silence at her bedside and fall behind on his cases.

"I'm surprised he listened," she huffs.

"Took a lot of cajoling," Ryan says. "But in the end, he knew there was nothing he could do here and he'd never hear the end of it from you if he dropped his cases for a month. Turns out Beckett Senior can be intimidated by Beckett Junior, too."

"I learned from the best," she tells them, then nods back towards the door. "Thanks, guys."

Lanie turns to her once they're gone. "Speaking of writer boy..."

"What?"

"He's got it bad, girl," she says, a small grin on her lips.

Beckett scrunches her face up. "What are you talking about?"

"He hasn't left your side, Kate. I called him over a week ago to let him know what happened and he came straight from the Hamptons, didn't leave for three days until I forced him to go home and shower." Beckett's mouth opens. "He's been here since, right there in that chair. Even sleeps here."

"He—he hasn't left at all?"

Lanie shakes her head. "Except to shower and grab clean clothes? Nope. Even convinced the night nurses to give him a blanket to use," she says, nodding to the corner of the room where a blanket is folded over his bag.

She doesn't know what to say, what to tell Lanie at that. She knows. She knows he was by her side, can remember hearing him talking to her. She didn't know he hadn't left, though, that he'd stayed consistently for over a week. Time didn't translate in the coma, she supposes, everything blurring together into one mess of memories. It's fuzzy, the details and actual dialogue a bit choppy and mixed up, but she remembers. He read her some types of stories, told her how missed she was, confessed his... his love, for her.

It makes her heart thump in her chest, but she can't deal with the revelation right now. Not when she's just woken up after a month of being dead to the world and she's trying to turn herself right side up again.

She's not running away from it, from _him_. She's not, but she pushes it to the back of her mind for now, telling herself she'll return to it at a later date. When she's healed up, ready to confront her own feelings. When she's a little more whole.

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow," Lanie echoes. "The man even read to you, Kate. I'd come and hear him with a new book, acting out the scenes for you."

Her lips tug up around the corners. "What books?"

"Don't know." Lanie shrugs. "All I know is he's gone through at least three."

Beckett's about to say something when the boys return, coffees in hand and Castle in tow. He shoots her a soft smile, which she does her best to return, and hands her the water.

"Sorry for the delay," he says. "Figured I'd give you all some time alone."

"Thanks, Castle," she murmurs.

He nods, taking his seat again. He's quiet for most of the time, adding in small comments while the boys talk, but he mainly observes. His eyes are on Beckett, pure elation sparkling in them as he takes her in. She lets out small laughs when the boys make a joke, her smile brightening when Lanie says something sweet, and most likely embarrassing.

Looking at her now, lips curled around the corners and life in her eyes, he's in awe. He loves her; he knew that, has known it for a while. But right now, perched at her bedside while she's awake and color begins to return to her face, it hits him. Hard.

He's _in_ love with her.

* * *

Thank you for all of your kind words. I know it's a rough time right now, for both reading and writing fic, but I hope we'll all continue to find some joy in the stories our incredible Castle authors bring to life for us on here.

This chapter is in honor of Stana and Tamala, two wonderful women who deserved more.


	5. Chapter 5

"This sucks."

He chuckles, giving her a sympathetic look as he helps her back into the bed. "I know," he agrees. "But it'll only make you stronger."

She started doing light physical therapy to regain some strength in her limbs—the disuse left them heavy, and though her injuries limit what she can actually do, it doesn't stop her from pushing her hardest. He watches her every day, pushing and pulling against the resistance bands for over an hour, exerting herself to the point of exhaustion despite his suggestions that she slow down.

He gets a glare in return for them, of course, but he can't find it in himself to care, not when a few days ago he wasn't sure he'd ever be on the receiving end of one again.

"How's your pain?"

She sucks in a breath. "Not bad," she says, but her teeth grind as she does.

"That wasn't at all convincing."

"I've been through worse," she says, and he narrows his eyes at her. "The bomb in my apartment?"

He shakes his head. "No," he argues. "You cannot compare a few bumps and bruises from jumping into your cast iron tub to getting knocked around by a drunk driver and getting broken bones."

"Only the ribs are broken," she grumbles petulantly, hissing as she moves a certain way and her ribs feel like fire. "The ankle and wrist are fractured."

"Beckett," he sighs. "How is it really?"

His face softens, his gaze on her as she huffs a breath and finally looks at him. "Awful," she mumbles.

"Have you been taking the pain medication?"

He knows her, knows she's stubborn enough to pretend she doesn't need them, that she can handle the pain on her own and grit her way through it. She gives a noncommittal shrug, which he interprets as a no, and he moves around to the small bedside table to grab two tablets they'd left for her to take with her dinner.

"Here," he says, holding them out to her with a glass of water. "You can't just suffer through the pain."

"It's not that bad," she tries again, doing her best to put on a convincing facade.

It'd have worked, too, if he didn't know better, if he didn't know _her_.

"Nope. Take them. I can't sit here and watch you wince every five seconds because you moved the wrong way."

She sighs. "Fine," she grumbles, slowly plucking the pills from his hand. Taking a sip of the water, she makes a show of swallowing them. "Happy?"

"Very," he chirps, giving her a smile.

She let's the bravado fall, her shoulders slumping against the back of the bed. Her breathing is heavy, careful and slow to account for the pain deep breaths cause her ribs, her re-inflated lung. He watches as her eyes slide closed for a few seconds, not screwed shut but tight enough, and he takes his rightful place beside her, reaching a hand out to tap low on her blanket covered thigh.

"Why don't you try and get some rest?"

She huffs, lids peeling open to eye his hand for a split second, but she doesn't comment. "I've been asleep for a month, I shouldn't be tired."

"You weren't _asleep_ , Beckett, you were in a coma. There's a very big difference." The difference being that one carries the assumption that the person will wake up. "You're working yourself as hard as you can with your exercises, not taking your pain medication. Of course you're exhausted."

Beckett sighs, lets her head loll back against the pillow. "Don't you have anything better to do than supervise me?" she asks, tilting her head with a raised brow.

"Nope," he smiles, popping the p.

She groans, going for an irritated bite, but he can see the slightest of smiles threatening to tug at her lips.

"Sleep, Kate," he says, softer this time. It comes out without his consent, all of those hours referring to her by her first name while she was unconscious finally seeping into their actual conversations. She quirks a brow, squints a little, but just shakes her head.

He shuffles forward, taking the initiative to tug the thin hospital blanket up to her shoulders. He's three seconds away from tucking her in like a burrito when she nudges his hands away.

"Castle."

"Oh!" he exclaims suddenly, throwing a hand into the air and moving towards his overnight bag. Her eyes follow him, his movements, and he doesn't have to turn to know she has one of her brows arched. "These hospital blankets are _so_ not acceptable. I mean, they work, I guess, but they're not even remotely warm enough. Or comfortable. So," he drags out the vowel, rustling in his bag for a few seconds before pulling out a large blanket. "I brought you this."

"What is—"

He makes his way towards her, stopping in front of the bed to hold it up. "Only the softest of the soft," he sings, arms wide as he shows her the blanket he'd picked up for her.

It wasn't his intention, he didn't set out to buy a blanket, but on one of his few days outside of the hospital he ran to the nearest Target, wanted to see if there was anything he thought she might need—he doubts the toothpaste and toiletries they're providing are the best—when he saw it. It was on display, as if waiting for him to walk by and take notice.

It's a large, _extremely_ soft microfiber polyester blanket with an enormous, detailed picture of an elephant on it that takes up the majority of the fabric's space. Its body is filled in with different sized circles and swirls, a delicate pattern that comes together perfectly to resemble an elephant's rough skin. The trunk's painted with lines of varying thickness, different shades of gray. There are pops of color in the background, peeking out behind the elephant; hunter green leaves, and splashes of reds and deep oranges.

She blinks, staring at the blanket even as he drapes it over her body, on top of the flimsy hospital cloth.

"Is it okay?" he asks when she's been silent for a few seconds too long. "I saw it and thought of you, and I figured you could use something warmer—"

"Castle, it's... really beautiful," she says, her eyes finally lifting to his. "Thank you."

He smiles. "Of course."

She snuggles in as best as she can without jostling anything broken or bruised, and pulls the newly coveted blanket around her shoulders, fingers clutched around the edges. His heart leaps at the sight, at her pleased expression when she looks at the elephant and her obvious appreciation for it.

Her lips tug up into a soft smile, eyes on him for a few seconds longer before she finally lets them fall closed.

* * *

The cafeteria coffee really is terrible, and as much as he loves the adorable scrunch of her face when she drinks it, he starts sneaking her some real coffee and a bear claw every morning. He leaves early, before she wakes, in order to get it back to her before she even knows he's gone, but it's worth it.

If the nurses notice, they don't say anything. Probably because it's not like he's giving her alcohol, and she's technically been allowed to put more into her stomach within the past few days, but he doesn't question it.

"Your coffee, detective," he greets, entering her room with ease, a bag in his left hand.

Her smile brightens. "Thank you." She hums, taking a sip. "Remind me to never end up in the hospital again if _that_ is the coffee I have to deal with," she mumbles, eyes cutting dramatically to the offending liquid beside her.

He chuckles roughly, trying to hide how his face falls for a split second. It's just a statement, a lighthearted quip, but the thought of her ending up back in the hospital is too much right now, far too much after the past few weeks.

"How about we aim for no hospital visits in general," he suggests, tossing her a grin. "But as long as I'm around you'll have good coffee. Scouts honor." He salutes.

She eyes him. "You weren't a scout."

"You don't know that."

"Were you a scout?"

He shrugs. "No," he admits, and she gives him a pointed look. "Doesn't negate the honor, Beckett. Fresh coffee you will have!"

Beckett has the coffee halfway to her lips when someone bounds through the door. "Is that a bear claw, missy?"

"Hey, Lanie," she greets with a smile. "You want half?"

Lanie just shakes her head. "Keep your pastry, Beckett. You need it."

"Hey!"

She shrugs. "You gotta get some of that weight back on. Looks like writer boy's doing a pretty good job of that, though," she says, shifting her eyes to Castle, giving him a wink. "Good job."

He gives a curt nod. "Happy to help."

"Thanks, guys," Beckett mumbles, picking a piece of the bear claw off and popping it into her mouth. "I _was_ in a coma for a month, you know."

"We know, honey," Lanie says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Couldn't forget if we wanted to."

Castle sighs. "How are the boys?"

"Holding up," she says. "They got a new case, so they've been pretty tied up with it for the past few days. They did tell me to tell our girl here that they'd be stopping by at some point."

Beckett nods. "What's the case?"

"Nope," Lanie says, shaking her head. "No work for you."

"Lanie," she whines.

But her friend holds her ground. "No, chica. I know you'll act all nonchalant, but you'd find a way to work the case from this hospital bed and that's not happening."

Beckett huffs, arms crossed in front of her, and Castle stifles a laugh. Lanie's right and they all know it. She'd absolutely find some way to help the boys out with their case from right here in the hospital room, hooked up to machines and an IV or not. She'd probably write out the details on napkins.

Lanie stays for half an hour to catch up, chat with her friend, and then she has to go back to the morgue. Dead bodies, while they're not going anywhere, still have to be tended to. And cut open.

"Did you leave?" Beckett asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence they've been sitting in. She doesn't mean to, and her eyes widen slightly at her own outburst, but she doesn't retract the question.

She knows the answer, of course, but she's genuinely curious as to what he'll say.

He turns to her, hums. "What?"

She takes a breath. "Here. You know, while I was... did you leave?"

Ah, right. He wonders whether or not to tell her the truth, whether he should tell her that no, he barely left her bedside. After all, he's not the boyfriend. He's the friend, the one she hasn't talked to in two months before now, the one with whom her relationship is... complicated. What if it scares her off, has her running for the door?

She'd do it quite literally too, he muses, and he's more concerned about her injuring herself further in her rush to the exit than the pain that'd cause him.

"Not really," he says finally, deciding on the truth. "I didn't know until you'd already been in a coma for three weeks, but after that... I was here. Lanie had to force me to go back to the loft." He pauses. "Which was a good move on her part. Three day old clothes weren't all that appealing."

She chuckles. "You didn't have to stay, Castle," she says quietly. He's about to dispute that, tell her that he wouldn't have done it any other way, when she continues. "Thank you, though. For staying. That was... really sweet of you."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," he says seriously, giving her a smile. "I wasn't the only visitor, though."

She follows his gaze towards the flowers to her left. "Yeah, who are those from? I forgot to ask."

"Alexis," he tells her, watching as her eyes widen.

"Alexis?"

He nods. "Yeah. She and mother came by a few times, actually."

"Really?" she asks, disbelief weaved in her tone. "Wow."

"They care about you too, you know," he says. She looks back at him, her eyes telling him that she really didn't know that. Or at least, she didn't believe it to this extent. "Alexis was upset, but she was ecstatic when I told her you'd woken up."

Beckett tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, chews on it. "Tell them I said thank you," she whispers. "And thank Alexis for the flowers, too."

* * *

"I don't need another x ray," Beckett says, arms crossed in front of her and eyes set in a glare that he's oh so grateful he's not on the receiving end of.

Dr. Addison sighs. "Miss Beckett, it's just to check on your lung. We need to make sure it shows no signs of collapsing again."

"I think I'd know if my lung collapsed."

"You should just let them do the x ray, Beckett," Castle chimes in, and oh, yup, there's the glare. "The sooner you do, the sooner it'll be over."

"He's right, honey. It won't take long, and then we'll bring you right back here. Maybe your friend here will even have one of those bear claws waiting for you," she says, shooting a wink in his direction. His mouth hangs open, and Beckett laughs as he splutters. "We all know, darling. You're not as stealthy as you think." Beckett snorts. "She's allowed to have small pastries, it's okay."

"Good to know," he mumbles, a sheepish look on his face before turning to Beckett. "So, whaddya say, you go let them x ray your lung to make sure you haven't punctured it with all of your agitated wiggling—" He ignores her noise of protest. "—and I'll have a fresh bear claw here when you get out?"

Beckett grumbles, pursing her lips before turning her head to Castle. "Make it a chocolate chip muffin," she mutters.

He grins. "One super soft, super gooey chocolate chip muffin coming your way."

Dr. Addison smiles. "See, bribery goes a long way."

He watches as they leave, Beckett in a wheelchair despite her repeat assertions that she's fine to walk, and then he makes his departure as well. There's a nice pastry shop not too far from the hospital, which makes it the perfect destination for him to get her muffin.

His eyes scan the displays as soon as he gets there, taking in the many different options. He finds the chocolate chip muffins with ease, smiling at just how fresh they look, and then he continues his stroll, looking up and down at the other pastries. Apple and raspberry strudels, bear claws, scones, and tarts line the shelves and all look delicious.

"Can I help you?" the woman behind the counter asks.

"Oh, ah—yes. Can I have two chocolate chip muffins, a lemon tart, and an apple strudel please?"

Why get just one when he can get four? The more the merrier applies to food too, he reasons.

The young blonde wraps his pastries and puts them in a small bag for him, wishing him a good day as he makes his way back out the door.

There's a smile on his face as he walks back into the hospital, if only because he knows Beckett's around here somewhere, most likely giving one of the hospital staff a hard time. She's hell in interrogation, and it's no surprise she's just as intimidating in a hospital. Cuts, bruises—which are still black, blue, and angry, splattered across her cheeks and forehead—broken bones and all.

She's not back yet when he slides into her room, so he takes a seat in the chair and puts the bag in his lap.

He doesn't have to wait long before he hears her voice, telling the nurse escorting her back that she's "bruised, not crippled," and then she's being wheeled back into the room. He wishes she'd realize how serious her injuries are—though he knows they could've been much worse—and that she's not _just bruised_ , but he doesn't dare say anything right now, just offers her a smile as she makes eye contact.

"Chocolate chip muffin, as promised," he says, holding up the bag for her to see.

Her scowl dissipates, a small smile taking its place. "Thanks, Castle."

He hands it to her once she's seated comfortably back in the bed and curled beneath her blankets, and she takes it with a grateful nod. She bites into it, her hand coming up to cover her mouth when the melted chocolate chips ooze out.

"I told you it'd be gooey," he quips. A brow arches, a teasing glint in her eyes, and his mouth falls open. "Katherine Beckett, I never."

She smirks, pulling off part of the muffin top and bringing it to her mouth. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He pulls his lemon tart from the bag, his heart fluttering when she grins, tongue peeking out between pearly white teeth.

* * *

"I'm going stir crazy, Castle," she grunts, legs twitching beneath the blankets.

It's been a week since her lung was checked again, and despite her accidental twists, it's still in tact, still inflated. They've run more tests on her since, checking her vitals and making sure everything's working as it should—or, as best as it can, given her injuries.

She's doing better with physical therapy, too. She still groans and hisses with the exertion, but it doesn't stop her from going all out, trying to strengthen herself as quickly as she can. It's hard, especially with a cast on one ankle and one wrist, but in true Beckett character she doesn't back down. And it's working, too, as she's regained a decent amount of her strength back in this short period of time, limbs no longer bricks attached to her body.

He chuckles, and she narrows her eyes. "I have to get out of here."

"Try to relax," he suggests, but realizes too late that's the wrong thing to say when she tosses a balled up napkin in his direction.

"I've been doing nothing but resting. I'm _tired_ of resting," she huffs. "I'm tired of this hospital, of not being able to move or go anywhere, and these machines beeping in my ear."

He doesn't mention that the beeping comforts him, reminds him of the life still present within her.

She looks miserable though, having been here for so long, and he doesn't blame her. He feels awful, watching her deflate every time she's taken to another test or told she really shouldn't be moving around too much.

"What, you're trying to tell me you _don't_ love this hospital food?"

"I'd kill for a Remy's burger," she deadpans. "And I mean actually kill. If I have to eat one more 'meatloaf'—" She uses air quotes, contorting her face into a hilarious expression. "—I might actually resort to murder if it means I'd get real food."

He lets out a loud laugh. "Now we don't want any murders on our hands, do we?"

"Scared to be an accomplice, Castle?" she quips.

He shakes his head, doesn't miss a beat. "I'd help you hide the body."

"How sweet of you," she drawls. Her face drops once more, body soft against the sheets.

Dr. Addison walks in a few minutes later, a clipboard in hand, and Beckett perks up.

"How are you feeling?" the woman asks.

Beckett nods. "Better." Dr. Addison gives her a look, but she shakes her head. "Really, better. There's some pain, obviously, but the medication helped."

"Good, I'm glad."

"When can I get out of here?" Beckett asks quickly, all too eager, and he's sure she'd hop out of bed and sprint through the front doors if she was told she was free to go.

The doctor hums, flips through her chart. "Well... the medication seems to be helping keep the pain level at a minimum, physical therapy is improving your strength, and your lung seems to be in good shape all things considered."

"So?" she hedges.

"I'd feel comfortable if we observed you for one more night," Dr. Addison starts. "But you can be discharged tomorrow, barring any complications tonight."

"There won't be any," she promises, a finality in her tone as if she has a say in what her body decides to do.

"I do recommend that you have someone to watch you for the first couple of weeks. Your pain will likely come and spike in waves, and since you don't have full mobility back being on your own is not preferable. Do you have anyone to stay with you?"

Her expression falters. Castle knows that she won't stay with her father, who's back upstate at the cabin after Beckett's repeat assertions that she's fine, that she doesn't want him hovering and that she promises she'll see him soon, and she's already turned down Lanie's offers to have her stay in Beckett's apartment. _I don't need a babysitter, I'll be okay_ , she'd said.

But now that the doctor's recommended it, he cuts in before Beckett can say no. "She does."

Her eyes snap to him. "Castle, no—"

"You need somewhere to stay, and I'm not letting you go home alone. I have a guest room, and the loft is filled with people who care about you and your recovery."

"I couldn't intrude like that."

He shakes his head. "You're never an intrusion, Beckett. We want you there."

Beckett's mouth opens and closes, tongue poking out to wet her lips, and then she slumps against the pillow. Realizing that despite her objections, this is likely the only way she'll get out of this place, she relents. "Okay."

"Excellent," Dr. Addison announces. "The paperwork will be done tomorrow then."

She leaves, putting in the paperwork that they'll have to sign tomorrow, and Beckett turns to Castle.

"You don't have to do this," she says with a sigh.

"I know," he agrees. "But I want to. Like I said, Beckett, we want you there. You know there's no way I was going to leave you alone, so either you stayed at the loft or I'd set up camp in your living room."

She scoffs. "That's pretty presumptuous of you."

"But I'm not wrong."

With a purse of her lips and a small nod, she rolls her eyes. "I know you're not."

* * *

I honestly can't express the gratitude I have for all of you and your sweet comments. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

Beckett practically bites the head off of the attending who suggests they run a few final tests before she's discharged, just in case, and Castle has to place a hand on her forearm to calm her down. The tests are just precautionary, most due to her lung—which is their biggest concern, despite the assertions from Dr. Addison that yesterday's test would be the last—and he finally coaxes her into going willingly.

No bribes needed this time, surprisingly, though the look she shoots him is somewhere between a glare and a plea.

She's wheeled back in twenty minutes later, slumped against the back of the chair, her chin resting in the palm of her hand.

"We'll get your discharge papers ready for you, Miss Beckett," the attending says, his attention turning to Castle. "You'll be staying with her?"

"She'll be staying with me," he confirms. "She won't be alone."

Beckett scoffs but the doctor nods. "Good. It shouldn't be long now." He looks to Beckett. "You're free to get dressed."

She nods at him as he leaves, letting out a sigh of relief once they're alone.

"That bad?"

Her head twists towards him. "Just exhausting," she says. "I've had enough tests done to last a lifetime."

"Well, let's hope you don't need anymore," he adds, giving her a smile. "You want to get dressed now?"

She nods furiously. "Yes," she breathes. "This hospital gown has seen the end of its days."

Castle laughs. "Duly noted."

"Wait. I don't have any clothes," she sighs. "I don't have a bag here, and I doubt the clothes I came in with are in any shape to be worn again."

He holds up a finger, turns around, and walks towards the other end of the room. Unzipping his duffle, he grabs a second store bag, tucked nicely into the corner beneath his own spare clothes. With a smile he stands back up, extending it towards her.

"Sure you do," he says. "Right here."

Her brows furrow. "What's this?" she asks, eyeing the bag and then him.

"Pretty obvious, isn't it? Clothes, Beckett."

"You bought me clothes?"

He shrugs. "I figured you didn't have any with you and you'd need them to get discharged, so I went out last night and got a couple of things."

She takes the bag from him after a few seconds of hesitation, giving him a small smile as she opens it. He tried to go off of her usual wardrobe choices, but was conscious of her injuries and didn't get anything too tight or too restricting.

In the end, his choices end up being almost a complete polar opposite to her normal wardrobe. A pair of soft, pale gray sweatpants and an oversized white baseball tee with _New York_ across the front.

"The cast on your ankle kind of limited the pant options," he explains as she pulls them out.

Chuckling, she shakes her head. "Thank you, Castle. This was... really sweet."

"No thank you necessary," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "Thank you anyway," she repeats.

"Do you need any help getting changed?" he quips, waggling his eyebrows. "Because I'm an _excellent_ helper."

"Not a chance."

"You might need someone to keep you balanced," he points out.

" _Out,_ " she says with narrowed eyes, a finger pointed towards the door.

* * *

She has crutches to keep her weight off of the fractured ankle, and he watches as she struggles her way into the elevator of his apartment building.

"You okay?" he asks, and he knows he's hovering, standing too close and itching to reach out, but she looks like she's in pain.

Her eyes squint shut, mouth in a firm line as she nods. "I'm good."

"No you're not."

She brings her eyes to him. "Castle," she sighs, leaning forward and resting on the top of the crutches.

"What is it?" he asks, giving her a soft look.

"It's just... the crutches," she mumbles. "The movement—it keeps tugging at my ribs."

He watches as she tries to steady her breathing, taking slow, shallow breaths to ward off the shooting pains. It takes him a few seconds, but just as the elevator reaches his floor, he grabs the crutches and carries them in his left hand.

She makes a face. "Castle, what—"

"They're hurting you," he says easily, carefully inching closer and draping an arm around her back. "Lean on me."

"I can walk on my own," she retorts, but she doesn't move. Whether it's because she doesn't actually mind or because it hurts too much to move, he's unsure.

He nods. "You can. But it'll be less painful for you if you just let me help." She's silent, and he tugs her gently into him. "Elevator's closing."

She grumbles but eventually curls in, slowly leaning her weight into his side. They make it into the hallway and shuffle towards his door, Castle fronting a majority of her weight so she doesn't hurt any of her injured limbs.

Stopping in front of the door, he steps away from her just enough to put the key in the lock.

"You're sure they're okay with me being here?" she asks, just as he's about to push the door open. "Again?"

He pauses. "Of course," he says seriously. "They're just as happy to have you here as I am."

In lieu of replying, she offers him a tight lipped smile. Knowing she's anxious about it, he gives her a few extra seconds to gather herself before he actually lets them in, pushing the door to give them enough room to walk in as they are, arm in arm. He drops the duffle bag by the closet, and there are footsteps approaching immediately.

"Oh, Katherine, dear," Martha says as she comes over to them, placing a comforting hand on Kate's upper arm and squeezing. "It's good to see you up and moving."

"Thank you, Martha," she smiles.

Alexis comes in a minute later, bouncing down the stairs with a smile on her face. "Detective Beckett, I'm glad you're okay."

"Thank you, Alexis," she says, then pauses. "And please, you can still call me Kate."

The girl nods, and none of them move for a few minutes.

"I'm sorry to be intruding like this—"

"Nonsense," Martha cuts her off with a wave of her hand. "You're nothing of an imposition."

"Yeah, we're just happy that you're feeling a little better," Alexis adds.

 _And awake_ , he thinks.

"Are you tired? Hungry?" he asks, turning to face Beckett.

She gives a shy smile. "I could do with some real food."

He grins. "Real food it is," he says, clapping his hands together. "Here, let's get you over to the couch and I'll go start on some dinner."

She doesn't resist when he guides her into the living room, helps her lower herself onto the couch. Grabbing the throw blanket from the back, he drapes it over her, ignoring the roll of her eyes.

"It's not the elephant one, but it'll do for now," he jokes.

"It's fine, Castle."

There's a brief moment where he lingers, just stares at her for a few seconds before smiling and forcing himself to head back into the kitchen. His mother and Alexis are already standing around the island.

"She looks better," Martha says.

"It's hard to look _worse_ than you did while in a coma, I'd think."

"Either way, she's awake and moving around. Now get that girl some food in her. Poor thing's been living off of hospital food, and we all know how dreadful that is."

Alexis nods. "What are you going to make, dad?"

He hums, thinking of all of the possibilities. His usual go to plans aren't exactly ideal right now; she's been eating more and more each day, slowly making her way back to a normal meal schedule, but she hasn't had a proper meal in a while and he thinks they'd be a bit too heavy just yet.

"Homemade chicken soup?"

"Oh, that's really good," his daughter says. "Can I help?"

Castle smiles. "You got it," he confirms. "You get all of the ingredients out while I chop the vegetables?"

She narrows her eyes. "How about _you_ get all of the ingredients and start on the broth while I chop the vegetables?"

"You almost chop your pinky off one time and she never lets you live it down," he drawls, and he can hear Beckett's muffled snorting from the living room. "Go, go. Chop away."

* * *

"This is delicious," Beckett hums around another bite of soup.

"A family favorite," he beams, turning to Alexis. "I've been making it for her since she was little."

"He makes it every time I'm sick," the girl adds. "It's kind of a family tradition now. Whenever one of us is sick, we'll make it."

Something in Beckett's face changes, a mix of emotions playing across her features, but he doesn't comment. Not yet.

"I can see why," she manages.

There's a silence that takes over, not uncomfortable, as the three of them continue to eat. Martha has obligations to attend to, but not before pulling Beckett into a soft hug. He watches Beckett stiffen ever so slightly before relaxing, and he'd even dare to say she enjoyed it.

"Do they hurt?" Alexis's quiet voice breaks the silence.

They turn to her. "What?"

"Your bruises," she clarifies, but then her cheeks brighten. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare or be rude, it's just... they look painful."

Beckett shakes her head, giving her a small smile. "It's okay. They're sensitive to the touch, but they look worse than they are. It's the gash across my forehead that stings the most, actually."

"We really should change that bandage later."

She groans. "Not over dinner, Castle," she chides, shaking her head. "I'd rather eat without the image of gross bandages, thank you."

He laughs. "Okay, okay, sorry," he says, a hand held in the air. "Later."

They finish eating and Alexis excuses herself to finish some homework, leaving just the two of them downstairs. Beckett has her arms resting on the island—she'd insisted that she's perfectly fine to eat like a normal person, didn't want to sit on the couch—with her head in her hands.

"Something on your mind?"

She peeks through her fingers to look at him. "I just—" She sighs. "I feel... dirty."

Oh. He forgot that she hasn't really had a chance to shower in—well, a while.

"You're more than welcome to use the shower," he says, then pauses. "You're a bath person."

"Is that a question?"

"No, it's a statement."

Giving a slow nod, her tongue peeks out to sooth her bottom lip. "Don't make it dirty, Castle."

"I do believe that you're the one who brought up the concept of dirty," he says, watches her eyes roll. "But I was merely trying to suggest that because you are a bath person, I will run you a nice, hot bath."

She's hesitant at first, but he doesn't miss the sigh of contentment at the thought. "It would be nice," she admits.

He bounces, depositing both of their plates into the sink before he rounds the island. "Then a bath you will get. Bubbles or no bubbles?"

"Vanilla scented bubbles?"

He grins. "You got it."

* * *

He's trying not to hover, to give her the privacy she most definitely needs, but he doesn't want to go too far just in case she needs something. So he stays in his office, bides his time by opening a new document and writing down whatever comes to mind. He hasn't done free writing in a long time, but he enjoys the freedom he's given when he does.

"Castle?"

He hears her calling him from the bathroom and jumps up, heading through his bedroom and to the door.

"Beckett?" he calls, knocking softly on the door. "You okay?"

"I—yeah," he hears. "Could you... come in here?"

His eyes shoot open. "Are you sure?"

A pause.

"Yeah."

He pushes the door open, stepping into the bathroom with one hand covering his eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Giving you privacy," he says. "What's up?"

She sighs. "I can't—it hurts. Would you..." Taking a deep breath, she squeezes her eyes shut for a few seconds before slowly opening them. "Would you help me with my back?"

He's pretty sure he's stopped breathing. She wants him to _what?_

"I—of course," he manages. "Sure. Yeah."

"I can't twist to get it myself, but I don't want to not wash my back and—"

"Kate, it's okay," he assures her. "I'm more than happy to help."

His voice isn't laced with his usual teasing, instead replaced with a genuine tone. This is hard for her, he knows, asking for help. Especially something like this, something so intimate. But he won't make it more uncomfortable for her by making inappropriate jokes.

"You can uncover your eyes, Castle," she quips. "I'd rather you not do this blind."

Chuckling, he slowly peels his fingers away from his face and lets himself look at her. She's sitting in the tub, her legs curled into her chest and arms crossed on top to cover herself up. Bubbles lap at her knees, and she still has shampoo in her hair. It's actually kind of adorable.

Or really adorable.

The cast on her ankle is wrapped in a bag, practically duct taped at the top so it stays perfectly dry. He moves behind her, kneeling onto the floor as searches for the loofah.

"Here," she murmurs, handing it to him.

"Thanks."

He blows out a deep breath and brushes away the wet strands of hair that cling to the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades. Her skin reacts under his touch, breaks out into small goosebumps, and his breath hitches. He swallows before finally putting the loofah to her back, carefully gliding it across her skin.

More bruises are visible like this, open and bare, and he traces the splotches along her ribs with extra care.

He hesitates when he gets lower, his hand disappearing below the water to wash her lower back, and she curls in on herself some more to give him more room. With one final swipe over her back he sinks back onto his haunches, putting the loofah on the side of the tub.

"All clean," he says finally, doing his best to level his voice.

"Thanks, Castle," she whispers.

"You rocking the shampoo doo?" he teases.

She purses her lips, twisting as best she can to look at him. "I started to wash it out," she defends. "But then it hurt to stretch my arms that far back."

"Do you want me to..."

"Oh, um—that's... that's okay, really."

"Okay," he says. "But if you need help, just call okay?"

She nods, and he stands, makes his way back towards the door.

"Castle?" he hears right as he's stepping out.

He hums. "Yeah?"

"I need help."

He smiles at her shy, frustrated expression, and returns to her side. Her hair smells incredible, not like its usual cherry but more like a lavender thanks to the shampoo his mother bought, and he slowly brings his hand to her head. His fingers run through her hair, and he revels in the feel of the thick strands as they slide easily through the digits. He scrubs, working the shampoo into her hair one last time before grabbing a cup and filling it with warm water.

A hand comes to her forehead, pushing back her hair as she tilts her head back towards him, and he washes the shampoo out, running his hands down the back. It's a habit, keeping a hand on her head to avoid water getting in her face, something he used to do for Alexis when she was little.

He helps her with the conditioner too, and steps out when it's time for her to dry off, but not before he notices a soft smile grace her lips.

When he falls asleep later, in the guest room after he'd finally convinced Beckett to take his room, he's still smiling.

* * *

You're all incredible, thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're doing better."

She practically growls from where she lies on the floor, her hands covering her face. Taking a few steadying breaths, she does her best to calm herself before letting out a long exhale. She doesn't remove the hands from her face, though, doesn't open her eyes.

"This _sucks_."

Castle chuckles, bending to crouch beside her. "I know," he says. "But you know the more you do it, the quicker you'll get your strength back."

Sighing, she lowers a hand. "I know," she repeats. "I need my strength to be back where it was a month ago so I can get back to work, get back out in the field, and forget this ever happened."

He knows she hates physical therapy, hates that anyone sees her struggling with the weights when she's usually in such excellent shape, but he also knows that it's working. She's nowhere near where she needs to be, where she wants to be, but she's yards ahead of where she was when she left the hospital. Her mobility is getting better, and she's able to walk around the loft with little to no problems for longer periods of time, and the strength in her arms is improving too.

"It's not that bad," he muses, receiving a glare in return.

"You don't need to supervise me, you know," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut. "I'm a big girl, Castle. I'm perfectly capable of doing these ridiculous strength training exercises by myself."

"I have no doubt that you're capable," he tells her with a nod. "But the one condition was that you're not left alone, remember?" She gives a noncommittal shrug against the carpet, an unintelligible grunt of a noise. "I didn't quite catch that."

"Don't want you watching this," she mumbles quietly, turning her head away from him.

Oh, Beckett.

This is hard for her, he's fully aware of that, and as much as he would love to just let her do her thing on her own, he can't. She's not strong enough to handle some of the weights, the ones she keeps going for when she thinks he's not looking because she's under the impression that it'll help her get there faster, and he knows that if he doesn't tell her not to, she's going to use them. She'll use them, she'll hurt herself more, and it'll only set back her progress.

Besides, the only reason the doctor agreed to let her stay with him is because he said she wouldn't be alone. Especially during physical therapy, when a second person is most definitely necessary.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he tries instead, knows that any other route with no doubt end badly. "You were in a coma for a _month_ , Beckett. Your muscles were completely immobile for thirty days. It's going to take some time to reverse what that's done, and this is how that works. You're getting stronger, and you shouldn't be embarrassed about this."

She sighs, but doesn't reply.

"Or, you know, we could always go back to Dr. Waskavich."

Puffing out an irritated breath, she shakes her head. " _No_."

Castle gives her a soft smile that she can't see, what with her eyes pinched shut so tightly he wonders if it hurts. She hates him witnessing her physical therapy, but she hates it less than she hated the actual physical therapist they sent her to.

"That's what I thought."

"Still don't like it," she grumbles.

"I know. The many kicks I've gotten to the shin tell me just how much you don't like it," he teases, watching when she winces, but the corners of her lips tug into the ghost of a smile. "Hey, now there's a smile."

Her teeth dig into her lip as she tries to hide it, conceal the smile, but he sees it. He sees it and can't stop the warmth that travels through his veins, the smile of his own that forms across his lips.

"Shut up."

He laughs. "Okay, come on," he says, patting her knee before standing up. "I think you could use some food. And ice cream."

She rolls her eyes. "You of all people should know that ice cream is food."

"Ah, but it's not the _same_ food. The food I refer to is that is sustenance, because you've worked up an appetite I'm sure. Ice cream, while delicious and most definitely necessary, does not fit the bill."

"Okay, oh great food connoisseur, what's on the menu then?"

Castle grins, watching her slowly ease herself up off of the floor. He's itching to walk over and offer a hand, help her up so she's doing so as comfortably as she can, but he restrains himself—she'll decline the offer, and give him what he has no doubt will be a glare to rival all previous glares.

" _Well_ ," he drawls, rounding the island as he steps into the kitchen. He rummages in a few cabinets. "You have a number of options."

"And those would be?"

She's making her way, slowly, over to the island when he turns back around at the sound of her voice. He watches her face twist into a grimace as she sucks in a breath, eyes screwing shut.

"You okay?" he asks, inching his way towards her.

Nodding, she opens her eyes. "Yeah, I'm good. Twisted a muscle the wrong way when I sat down," she says quietly, waving him off. "What were those options?"

He eyes her for a few seconds, silent concern still lingering in his eyes, in the fine cracks of his features, but ultimately nods and turns away. He's not convinced, but he's not about to hover, make a big deal about every slight wince she makes.

As much as he wants to.

"Options, right," he says, going back to the cabinets. He moves some things around, peeking around a few boxes and cans, and then looks back. "We can make Penne alla Vodka, or lemon chicken and a nice side, or... _ooh_ pierogies with butter and onion."

He turns to her with a smile, and she looks back at him, elbows propped on the counter top. "No need to do anything fancy on my account," she says. "Whatever takes the least amount of trouble is fine."

"Beckett, please. This is no trouble at all. _You_ are no trouble at all," he adds on, because even though she should know this, he doesn't think she believes it. She averts her eyes. He won't push. "Any excuse to cook something fancier than spaghetti and meatballs is welcomed. Besides, Alexis will be back later and I'm sure she'll love some leftovers. So, what'll it be?"

She chews on the inside of her cheek, fingers tapping against her closed lips while she thinks. "Penne is probably best suited for leftovers," she decides.

"Leave it to you to turn choosing a meal into something calculated and logical."

She huffs out a laugh. "My apologies," she rolls her eyes. "That would've been my choice even if it wasn't the most ideal, for the record."

He grins, pleased, and starts taking out all of the necessary ingredients. He's pretty sure they have everything they need, but he'll just run out to the store quickly if they don't.

Penne, check. Garlic, check. Onion, check. Butter and olive oil, check. Vodka, double check.

He accounts for the rest of the items, stopping when he gets to heavy cream. It's entirely possible that he'd used it all the last time he made one of his dinners, and he's not sure he stocked up on any more—

Nope, it's here, just hiding behind a box of pasta shells. Check.

"Okay, everything's here."

The next time he turns, Beckett's standing beside him, brows raised expectantly. "What can I do?"

"You want to—you want to help?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, Castle, I'm going to sit _right there_ at the island and watch you cook the entire meal by yourself. Yes I'm going to help."

"Shouldn't you be resting? That physical therapy went longer than usual, you should give your limbs a break."

"My _limbs_ and I are just fine," she drawls. "Now give me something to do."

He laughs, holding his hands up in surrender, and turns back to the counter. "Can you saute the garlic and onion in a pan? It should be in that bottom cabinet right there."

She nods, bending down in front of him to grab the pan, and then she returns to the stove, turning it on a medium heat and adding the ingredients needed. He watches her for a few seconds, but she's got that under control—especially if the _I've got it_ eyebrow raise is any indication—so he grabs a pot, putting it on the stove while being careful not to hit her in the process, and goes back to making the actual penne pasta.

Once they're both one, he hands her the vodka.

"Perfect," she murmurs, opening the bottle, and then she catches his eye with a grin. "Want some?" He raises a brow but she just shrugs, holds the bottle away from her mouth lets the alcohol pour in, burning as it slides down her throat. She almost chokes out a laugh when she looks back and finds him staring with wide eyes.

"You'll catch flies with your mouth open like that, Castle," she teases, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "Lift this pan for me so I don't start a fire."

He does so, and she pours the vodka into the pan. That reduces for a few minutes before he hands her the tomato puree and heavy cream to add in, and then they wait, standing around the kitchen for the sauce to be done.

She moves out of the way, opting to stand near the fridge, and after not too long he checks on it once more, tossing in some red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper. His mouth twists into a face when he grabs a spoon and tries it, and she has to bite back a laugh.

Shaking his head, he holds out the spoon to her, one hand hovering underneath to catch any excess. "Here, try this."

She takes a step back, her head instinctively moving away. "What?"

"Try this," he repeats. "Tell me what it's missing."

He sees the hesitation, the indecision, but then she lets out a breath, slowly moving her head closer. She grabs onto the end of the spoon as he lowers it into her mouth.

When she pulls away, her face takes on the same scrunched disposition his did seconds earlier. "Salt, Castle," she grimaces. "That key ingredient you're missing is _salt_."

His eyes widen. "I added salt!" he defends.

"Doesn't taste like it."

"You made the sauce too, you know."

" _I'm_ not the one who was in charge of adding the spices, I just sauteed it!"

Instead of replying, he walks around her, adding a few pinches of salt while she watches. He faces her with a proud, smug grin. "Enough?"

She walks over, taking a pinch of salt between her fingers, and throws it in. "Now it is."

"Can we eat it now, or does the pasta need salt too?"

"I don't know, Castle," she muses. "You remembered to put salt in the water before you made it, right?"

He nods happily, getting an eye roll in return, and hands her a plate.

"Eat up, Beckett. Dessert's next."

* * *

Dessert, as promised earlier, is ice cream, and he hands her the bowl of strawberry.

"So plain," he says, plopping down in the seat next to her. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I put killers behind bars for a living, I'd say my sense of adventure is just fine."

"No," he shakes his head. "That's a job, not a sense of adventure."

She rolls her eyes, nodding down towards his mixture of both chocolate and vanilla with oreos, gummy worms, peanuts, and orange slices. "My sense of adventure definitely doesn't lie in my food choices," she says.

"Your loss."

"No, most definitely my gain. That's disgusting, Castle."

His mouth drops open. "I'm offended. This is _delicious_."

"Oranges have no place in ice cream."

"You've never tried it, you can't criticize."

"You're right, and I never will try it," she adds, her attention back on her own ice cream. She sticks a spoonful in her mouth. "This, on the other hand, is delicious. I don't know what brand this is, but it's better than the others."

"Thank you," he says happily. "Churned it myself."

She stops mid-bite, turning her head, squinted eyes on him. "You did not."

"Did so. With Alexis," he tosses back.

"Seriously?"

Looking into her wide eyes, he can't keep the straight face, can't hold it back anymore. "No," he laughs. "I can't churn ice cream, Beckett, I'm not on the prairie."

"That's butter." She pushes on his shoulder with her hand, keeping her bowl secure in her lap. "I knew you didn't make this ice cream."

"Oh, you did not! You _so_ believed me, don't lie. It's not befitting of you."

He watches her eyes narrow, her mouth open, but then her phone goes off and she turns, reaching over to grab it. Her face changes, eyes darting all over the screen as she reads whatever it is she's gotten, and then she sighs.

"Everything okay?"

Her head lifts. "What? Oh, yeah," she shakes her head. "It's the boys. They're keeping me updated on the cases."

He huffs. "I thought you weren't supposed to be working the cases."

"I'm not working them," she says defensively. "I'm just having them keep me in the loop. Montgomery may want me to rest for a few more weeks, which is ridiculous, but that doesn't mean I can't know what's going on at the precinct."

He's not naive enough to think that she's keeping her mouth shut, that she's not giving her input where she sees fit or helping the boys out where she can, but he's also not dumb enough to comment on it. As long as she's not actually running out there, trying to get hands on with the cases, then it's fine.

"They get a case?" he asks instead, watching the tension leave her shoulders as they deflate against the couch.

She nods. "A teenager," she murmurs, averting her eyes. "According to Lanie, she was—raped and killed, left behind a dumpster."

Kids are the worst. And teenagers are still kids, as far as he's concerned.

Hell, Alexis is a teenager, but she's still his baby.

And rape cases are their own special kind of hell. He hasn't had to deal with one in the time that he's been working with her, but by the cloudy, ghosted look in her eyes, he can tell she's dealt with a few on her own that've rattled her.

He takes a chance and rests a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she lifts her gaze, offers him a soft upturn of her lips.

"I think this calls for a movie marathon," he declares, lightening the mood. She gives a small, huffed laugh, and an appreciative smile.

Beckett gives a curt nod. "I think that sounds great."

He claps, standing from his spot, and grabs her bowl along with his. "Take your pick," he says, nodding to the pile of DVDs in the corner. "I'll put these in the sink and meet you in the office?"

He ends up washing the dishes while he's there, doesn't see the point in leaving four things sitting there. Beckett's no longer in the living room, sifting through the DVDs as she was the last time he looked over, so he assumes she's already in the office and makes his way in to join her.

"You choose?"

"Yup."

"Gonna share with the class, Beckett?"

She grins. "Already put it in, so sit down. You'll find out when we hit play."

He huffs. "So bossy."

"Come on, Castle, holdin' up the movie."

Laughing, he does as he's told and takes a seat next to her on the couch. He leaves enough space between them, enough space to still be deemed appropriate, and then settles back against the cushion. His mouth forms a surprised _o_ when she hits play, and he whips around to face her.

"How did you—"

"As if I haven't heard you quoting it under your breath when you get bored," she says, rolling her eyes.

Grinning, he just looks at her and she shakes her head, and then he turns back to the screen. His breath catches in his throat when he feels her sidle up next to him, their shoulders brushing, hips touching. He feels her body stiffen for a few seconds before she moves impossibly closer, her body leaning flush against his, her head resting against his shoulder.

He doesn't want to frighten her off by making a big deal of this, so he just lets his body relax and focuses on his breathing, let's a small smile grace his lips as the opening credits of _Miss Congeniality_ roll on the screen.

* * *

I can't really explain how much I appreciate you all.


	8. Chapter 8

Another month passes by and she's back to going for early morning runs, returning to the loft while he's making breakfast, chest heaving and sweat covering her skin in a glisten. Getting to watch her slowly morph back into the Beckett he knows, the Beckett that kicks ass and takes names in every aspect of her life, brings a wide smile to his face.

She's extraordinary in every sense of the word, and he just hopes soon she'll see it for herself.

Amidst the excitement for her also lies a pang of disappointment with the knowledge that her time at the loft is dwindling. She's already been here much longer than he knows she'd have liked—though he's almost positive she's been enjoying herself in his company, even if she won't admit it—and he knows she'll be back at her own apartment as soon as she can be.

With her regained mobility and strength, she'll be gone in no time at all.

Like clockwork, the front door opens and she's catching her breath, tugging the headphones out of her ears. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail, rogue ringlets falling into her face and clinging to her forehead. He'd spent an almost embarrassing amount of time admiring her workout gear the first few times she went out, and he still does, can't help it, but he does it less creepily now.

"Eyes off my ass, Castle," she'd said the first time, but he still caught the edges of a smirk playing at her mouth.

Today she's in black workout leggings, cut off mid-shin, and a pale gray tank top hidden beneath a zip up hoodie. She kicks off her sneakers near the door and strides into the kitchen.

"Morning," she says, grabbing a water from the fridge and taking a seat at the island.

"How was the run today?"

Nodding, she takes a breath. "Not bad. Got five miles in," she murmurs, offering him a grateful smile when he hands her a new water, knowing the one in her hand will be gone in about three seconds.

"That's great," he beams, squeaking when the bacon grease pops at him.

"Careful there, Ramsay," Beckett chuckles. "And yeah, I guess. Still not where I used to be."

"No, but it's more than you were doing last week. Five miles isn't shabby at all, you know. You don't want to overwork yourself, either, and end up setting yourself back."

Huffing out a sigh, she rests her head in her hands. "I know. I'm not," she promises. "But I want to be back to eight miles, at least."

"And you will," he hums, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and throwing some food onto it. "In time."

He watches as she rolls her shoulders back, arching her spine to stretch it out. Her face scrunches seconds later, and her fingers work to unzip the hoodie and tug it off, pull the sleeves from her arms and place it on the stool next to her.

"I need a shower."

He laughs. "There's fresh towels in the bathroom upstairs," he tells her, having re-stocked it earlier this morning while she was still on her run. "But first, you eat."

She rolls her eyes, but smiles as he pulls the bacon and eggs closer to her. "Thank you."

Fixing his own plate, he moves it aside, turning off the burner and making sure he doesn't leave the cloth anywhere near the stove again. There might have been an incident a while back that involved some smoke and a slightly charred dish cloth. But that won't happen twice, he's sure.

"Where's Alexis?"

Castle looks at her. "Asleep," he says. "As is the whirlwind I call my mother." He pauses. "Unless she's still out, in which case we should be afforded the pleasure of witnessing her walk of shame sometime within the next hour or two."

Beckett laughs around her last bite of eggs. "You know, your mother has a better social life than I do."

"She has a better social life than _I_ do," he adds with a laugh.

"Outshined by your own mother," she teases with an _oooh_ as she stands up, carrying her plate into the kitchen.

"Ouch, Beckett."

"I'm sure you'll get over it."

"I don't know, I'm pretty wounded," he drawls, bringing a hand to his chest. "You're more than welcome to kiss it and make it better, though."

He watches her fight the urge to roll her eyes at the waggle of his brows, an amused scoff escaping from her lips. She inches over and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, his breath stalled in his lungs as she leans over him, face coming closer before she—

Grabs his plate, a grin plastered on her face.

"So easy."

Of course, he should have seen that coming, because this is Beckett and this is what they do. The bickering, the banter, the innuendos.

He's so transfixed by her fake out, the post-run glow still illuminating her skin, that he doesn't notice her standing at the sink. She's huddled around it, water running as she washes their plates and silverware.

"Hey, you don't have to do that."

She waves him off. "It's just the dishes, Castle. There's no reason I can't do them."

"You're the guest."

"A guest who's been here for far too long and feels like she's not putting in her cut of the work."

He sighs. "You're still a guest, and the only working you need to be concerned with is about your health. I can do that."

"I'm doing the dishes," she says firmly, leveling him with a glare when he moves to stand. "Now bring me your coffee mug so I can rinse that out too."

Instead of tossing something back, another protest she'll dispute once more, he just picks up his mug from the counter and brings it over to her. She gives him an appreciative nod when she plucks it from his grip and goes right back to washing.

She's done in less than ten minutes, the water switched off and her hands dried on the dish towel.

"Okay, now I really need to shower," she says, turning to him. "You said the towels are..."

"Already hanging in the bathroom."

"Got it, thanks," she says with a nod, making her way up the stairs. Her head swivels, eyes darting to the kitchen once more. "I washed, you dry."

He doesn't miss the teasing sparkle in her eyes that's hidden as she quickly turns her head, hair covering her face, and disappears up the stairs.

* * *

He's out on the street, strolling down the block as he waits for Beckett to pick him up for the body drop. Fiddling with his phone, he dials her number, anxious energy leaving him impatient. It's been fifteen minutes since she said she was on her way, and the coffee shop she'll sometimes stop at before heading to the loft isn't all that far to begin with.

"Beckett."

"Hey," he says, dodging pedestrians left and right. "Where are you?"

She laughs, the sound huffed, but there's an undertone of amusement. He's wearing her down, peeling ever so slightly at that good old Beckett onion, slowly but surely. "Don't get your pants in a twist, Castle," she assures him. "I'm turning onto the street now."

His head pops up at that, gaze trained on the roads as he searches for the cruiser. It's a sea of yellow and black, taxis and SUVs blending together like puzzle pieces on the streets of Manhattan. They weave in and out, trying to squeeze tons of metal where they don't fit, all eager to push through the traffic that shows no signs of dispersing. Not that it'd be expected to; no, this is mild in terms of the peak hour rush.

A single police cruiser stopped at an adjacent light catches his eye. "Oh, I see you."

He continues in her direction so she won't have to go too far down the street to get to him. The light turns green, Beckett pulls out into the intersection, and he slows his pace, intent on waiting at the curb for her when—

Everything happens in slow motion.

His eyes are trained on Beckett, but there's a flash of light and his gaze trails over to the side, just in time to see a truck coming from the opposite direction. It's unsteady, weaving slightly over the center line, and he keeps staring.

It's not slowing down, it's not stopping.

Why isn't it stopping? The light's red.

But the light seems to be invisible to this driver because the truck keeps going, keeps speeding right through the red light, and heading right towards...

"Beckett!" he screams, and then he's running, dodging the confused New Yorkers he all but collides with in his haste to get to her. "Beckett!"

The sound of metal on metal is deafening, a sensation worse than nails on a chalkboard crawling down his spine and stopping him dead in his tracks, his heart in his throat and his breathing erratic. The two cars collide against each other, sending each individual hair on his body on end, and he fights to keep what little composure wasn't shattered in time with the glass windshields. His eyes keep blinking, won't focus past the haze that's clouding his vision.

Are those tears? Is it shock? He can't tell. Doesn't care to tell.

He can't breathe.

His hands are on his knees, braced against his chest, running through his hair, unsettled and unable to keep still. People have stopped, panicked and staring wide eyed at the mess in front of them. The screams around him are negated to hushed whispers, the voices drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, the grating, terrifying scraping that echoes consistently.

By the time the scene slowly fades back into focus, there are angered drivers honking, smoke filling the air. The monotonous tone of a single car horn continues to blare, one belonging to either of the cars involved in the accident.

The accident.

 _Beckett_.

The shock breaks then, his legs taking off at top speed once more, carrying him the rest of the way until he's standing in the middle of the street.

People have congregated around but no one's doing anything, no one's trying to help. Why isn't anyone trying to help?

"Someone—someone call 911," he yells, to no one in particular but to anyone who's listening.

Beckett's cruiser is totaled, the front of the truck slammed into the side— _her_ side. It's crashed into her side of the car and she's not coming out, can't get out, and he doesn't even know if she's breathing. If she's alive.

She has to be alive.

He still can't breathe.

He hurries around the car but finds himself stalled. The truck, the stupid fucking truck, is in the way, obstructing almost everything that would've been visible from her side of the car. The glass of the windshield is cracked and splintered; what's left of her side window is completely shattered, and he moves around as best as he can to get a glimpse of anything. Of her.

"Beckett!" he chokes, his voice hysterical, foreign to his own ears. "Kate, can you hear me?"

"Sir, you need to move out of the way," he hears, and he shoves the hands away, pushes whoever it is back because _don't you dare_. No. He can't stop, can't move, _won't_ move, because no one else is doing anything. He needs to get to her, Beckett, needs to get her out of a car that could very well burst into flames at any given second. "Sir, _now_."

When he finally twists around, ready to scream and yell and shove, he's faced with someone in uniform. The police. Not the 12th, no one from the 12th, but police. Followed by an ambulance.

Thank _god_. At least someone's here to help.

But still, he can't leave. He won't leave her.

"My partner," he manages after half a second, arms waving around, hands gesturing vaguely to the car. "She's—she's in there and it hit—is she?"

The man gives him a pointed yet sympathetic look. That's not what he wants. He doesn't want sympathy; sympathy is too close to condolences and that's for the dead. For a loss. He hasn't lost anything, he can't.

He doesn't want sympathy, he wants an answer.

"We don't know," he rushes out. "We'll do our best to get her out, but you can't be here."

And with that he moves, reluctantly but quickly, and lets them fight their way to Beckett. There are people working on the man in the truck, and he's a kettle ready to explode, a high pitch screech that'll tell them to leave him alone. It sounds awful, even to him, even in his head, but he can't find it in himself to care.

This man ran a red light, t-boned Beckett's cruiser.

He'll kill him himself if anything happens to her, use his bare hands and watch the lights go out.

It seems like years before they get the truck pushed back far enough so they can get to Beckett's door and pry if off with giant crowbars. He watches with bated breath, dread curling around his ribs like a vice, as they manage pull her out. He finally, finally sees her, sees his partner, but she's...

He chokes out a sob.

She's barely recognizable. Covered in dirt and glass, blood splattered across her face like a canvas, gashes painting the parts of her body he can see, and she's not—

Moving. She's not moving. Tears flood his eyes and he hopes that's why he can't see her chest rising and falling, the one sign he needs most of all.

He's relocating in an instant, rushing over to the brawny officer who's carrying Beckett in his arms. Her limp, far too pliable body.

"Is she—is she okay? Is she breathing? It doesn't look like she's breathing." He's hovering, following the man's footsteps as he heads to put her on a gurney. "Please, tell me—"

"We need to do our job," is the answer he gets in return, but the panic etched into the lines of his face must do something to the guy because he sighs. "There's barely a pulse. We need to get her out of here if we want her to make it."

If.

 _If_ we want her to make it.

Barely a pulse.

No. There is no _if_ about it.

He stands there, motionless, as she's loaded into the ambulance and the doors are slammed shut.

* * *

"Castle."

Her voice floats to him and he holds onto it, latches onto the softness of her tone. It's not her, no, can't be her because Beckett's in the hospital, filled with nurses and doctors that won't tell him a damn thing because he's not _family_.

She's in the hospital, hooked up to machines and fighting for her life, the one that has so much more to live.

"Castle."

Again, clearer, louder this time. Still as soothing.

Beckett.

"Castle."

His eyes rip open at the shake of his shoulder and he bolts upright, bracing his hands on his thighs. He looks around, squinted, hazy eyes taking in his surroundings. This isn't a hospital. It's... his living room. And it's dark. Why is it so dark?

He turns to his left, coming face to face with a pair of concerned hazel eyes.

 _Beckett_.

A strangled breath makes its way past his lips and his eyes fall closed. "Beckett," he breathes, shaking his head. He scrapes a hand down his face. "Hi."

"Hi."

She's eye level with him, and one downward glance confirms that she's kneeling on the rug beside the couch, fingers wrapped around the edges of the cushions. "I took a break," he says quietly. "Stayed up writing. Didn't mean to fall asleep."

There's something in her eyes he can't pinpoint, but he's too preoccupied with the strong line of her cheekbones, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, and the very real life in her eyes to even begin to decipher it. She's here, alive, awake.

She's fine, sitting in his living room, but his heart continues to race, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Wait, sitting in his living room.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Oh," she says, jerking her head towards the kitchen. "I came down to get some water."

He nods. There's no water in her hands. "You didn't get it."

She shakes her head. "No, I uh... got sidetracked." He continues to look at her and she lets out a sigh. "You were talking."

"Talking?"

"Mumbling, really. But you were kind of thrashing around a bit, so I came over to see if you were okay, and you... called my name."

"Oh," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "Sorry, it was—it was nothing." His hand waves around, uncoordinated and heavy. "You should go get your water and head back to bed, I didn't mean to keep you down here."

Beckett ignores him. "It didn't look like nothing." She pauses. "I know a nightmare when I see one, Castle. You want to talk about it?"

He doesn't have the chance to answer before she's pushing herself off of the floor, and he expects her to leave, take his silence as a no and head back upstairs. But she doesn't. To his surprise, she taps at his shins until he moves his legs, and then settles in beside him on the couch.

Guess he's talking, then.

Her eyes are on him, and he almost can't hold her gaze, can't look at her without seeing flashes of that nightmare, of the truck crashing into her.

"I saw your accident," he starts slowly, quietly.

There's a soft _oh_ beside him. "Castle..."

"You were picking me up for a body drop. I called to see where you were, but you were already at the light. I could see you. But then... the light turned green and—and you went through the intersection," he says, stopping to take a breath. She gives his knee an encouraging squeeze. "A truck came from the other direction, ran the red light, and just... slammed right into the cruiser. It all happened so fast and I tried to get to you but I _couldn't_ and the ambulance came and they—"

"Hey, hey," she soothes, moving a little closer. "It's okay."

"I watched you get hit, Beckett."

She shakes your head. "No, you didn't. You didn't see anything, Castle. It didn't happen."

" _Yes_ , it did," he says, firmer than he'd intended. "It did happen. A drunk driver ran the light and put you in a coma for a month. I might not have seen it happen, but it did. And I should've been here for you, should've been in that hospital from day one, but I wasn't, and maybe if I was here I could've—"

Her hand moves from his knee and comes to rest on his shoulder. "Castle, _stop_ ," she says firmly. "I'm _okay_. I'm not in a coma, not in the hospital anymore. I'm here, right here. You got there."

She's right. She's not in the hospital, no longer hooked up to machines helping her breathe.

He takes a steadying breath. "Not soon enough," he murmurs, eyes falling shut. "I'm your partner, Beckett, I should have..."

"It's late," she whispers. "Too late for you to be thinking about this. You showed up when you found out, and that's all I could've asked for. You sat beside the hospital bed until I woke up. That's what a partner does." He manages the ghost of a smile for her, his chest expanding when she returns with one of her own.

She rubs at his shoulder once more before she stands, and he follows her movements, watches as she goes into the kitchen to grab the water she'd come down here for in the first place. A quick look at the clock tells him that it's late, middle of the night, and they should both really be going to bed.

She stops in front of the stairs, eyes bouncing from the darkness emanating from the second floor and then to him, and he offers her the most convincing nod he can muster.

"Come on," she breathes, so quietly he's not even sure she's said anything at all.

Surely she hasn't.

"What?"

She rolls her eyes. "Come on, Castle," she repeats, and he doesn't hesitate in gravitating towards the stairs, towards her, confusion evident on his face.

But she doesn't say anything else as they walk up together, down the hall, and into the guest room. He hovers in the doorway as she puts her water on the bedside table and pulls the covers away, slowly easing herself beneath them and back against the pillow.

"Castle."

He jumps. "What? Sorry, I'll—"

"Get in." Now he's definitely sure he's hearing things. He's probably still asleep. All of this is a dream. "Don't overthink it," she adds on a mumble. "Like I said, I know nightmares. I know how vivid they are, how hard it is to get the image out of your head. You'll... you'll sleep better here."

Of that he has no doubt.

Nodding, he shuffles over to the bed before he climbs in, careful not to jostle the bed too much. He keeps a decent amount of space between them, conscious of his positioning and not wanting to overcrowd her.

His eyes fall closed, the smell of her wafting into his senses and lulling him into a peaceful slumber, when he feels her shifting around.

"Castle?" she whispers into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"I—" She takes a breath, the sound shaky in a way he doesn't understand. "I don't want you to think I don't know how committed to this... partnership you are. This friendship. This..."

"This...?"

"I heard you," she rushes out in a single exhale.

That doesn't answer his question, doesn't tell him what she was going to say before her voice trailed off into the night, but it does provide yet another question.

He doesn't have a chance to even ask before she's speaking again.

"When I was in the coma," she clarifies, and his body freezes. That wouldn't have even been on the list of things he'd guess. "I heard you. I—you talked to me _every day_ , Castle. It's not all clear, a lot is jumbled pieces of a puzzle I can't put into place, kind of fuzzy, but it's there. You read me the paper, books. Don't know which ones."

He's not sure he's still breathing, too shocked, awed. At what she's telling him and the simple fact that she _is_ telling him. Now, right now, at four in the morning as he lies beneath her covers. Maybe she's sleep talking. Or too tired to know what she's doing.

"You cried," she continues, her voice wavering. "You pleaded with me to wake up, to keep fighting—"

"Beckett, you don't—"

He can hear her head shaking against the pillow. "Please, I need to..."

She needs to get it out. He gets it.

Maybe darkness is just the cover she needs to speak up.

Swallowing, he nods. "Okay."

"A lot of it might be hazy, but you... your voice—that's clear. I was drifting away and you kept me tethered to some semblance of reality, Castle." The back of his hand swipes at the moisture on his cheeks; the nightmare drained his energy and the late hour is making this all more overwhelming. She blows out a breath beside him. "I'm here, right now, partly thanks to you, okay?"

He doesn't speak for a few minutes, nor does she, both lying beside each other in a thick silence.

This is a lot. So much, verging on too much. The rawness in her voice, the sincerity, it's—refreshing, foreign. He doesn't know how to approach this Beckett, the one who shares so willingly something so intimate, even if it does regard him. Long seconds pass where he hesitates, but he can't hold back anymore.

"Beckett," he rasps, arm reaching blindly towards her side of the bed. His fingers wrap around her wrist, tug slightly in askance, and he sighs out a relieved breath when she doesn't resist, just wriggles slowly into his side and lets him wrap his arm around her shoulder. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Her head falls back. "Deserved to know," she mumbles. "I—haven't always been the easiest person to get to know, or to be friends with, but I'm... glad you stuck around. I appreciate you, your friendship, and don't want you to be so hard on yourself."

His heart swells, his grip tightening just slightly. Her body gets heavier beside him, sinking deeper into the mattress, and he passes the next few minutes by counting the spaces between her breaths.

"Sleep, Beckett," he whispers. "And... thank you. For telling me all of this. I—just, thank you."

He's awake for a while longer, staring into the darkness at the ceiling, his detective still carving out a Beckett shaped indent at his side. He's honored she'd share this with him; shocked but honored, and for the first time tonight he feels content as he closes his eyes.

Just as he's drifting off he hears the tiniest of sighs from his companion followed by six words, mumbled sleepily into his shirt, that has his breath lodged deep in his throat.

"Think I could love you, too."

* * *

Sorry for not updating last week. It was much busier than I'd anticipated and I barely had time to breathe, so editing wasn't possible. Thank you for your sweet words; I'm super appreciative, as always. Sorry it's a bit late this time, but I'll be replying to them this weekend.


	9. Chapter 9

When he wakes sunlight is bleeding through the cracks in the shades, casting a warm glow of patterns on the wood flooring. He stretches his legs out, toes curling into the mattress as he arches his back, and his fingers rub at his eyes. Blinking, he blows out a breath, only then realizing that he's not in his room.

This is... the guest room.

He turns his head, not really sure what to expect, but the bed beside him is empty. He's alone, no sign of Beckett. Which is... odd, given that this is most definitely the room she's staying in. Why is he in here? They didn't... no. There's no way he'd forget that.

Last night—or early this morning, he supposes—floods back in waves, flashes of a nightmare, of metal scraping against metal and Beckett's limp, debris-covered body. Next comes the more real, more tangible memories, waking up to Beckett shaking his shoulder, hovering in front of him from her spot on the carpet. His hands scrape down his face, a low groan escaping his throat. He's been doing so well with what had happened, with Beckett's accident, but some nightmares slip through the cracks. This isn't the first time he's had one. No, it's happened before, about a week after he'd found out, but it was different then. There was no crime scene, no actual visuals of the accident, of Beckett post-crash.

This one—this one was worse.

Seeing it happen, watching as her cruiser got completely demolished and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. Standing by while the paramedics and the police used the jaws of life to pry her door open, punch it back out from where it'd been caved in by the truck's front end. Staring as they pulled her body, thrown around in that car like a rag doll, from the driver's seat and put her into the ambulance.

It's unbearable even now, and a cold sweat breaks out on his skin at the mere thought of it, but he shakes his head, tosses the covers from his body and forces himself to breathe through it. This is not what he'd wanted her to see, didn't want her to know he had nightmares about it at all. Because in all reality, she probably has them too, ten fold from what he's experienced.

He should be the one comforting _her_.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pushes it all aside. It's over, done, and there are more pressing things to focus his attention on.

Most important being what she'd shared with him before they both succumbed to sleep, under the cover of night and a soft comforter. He'd never pegged Kate Beckett as much of a sharer, and during his time with her these past two years that has been proven true, but last night—no, last night he could have never imagined.

She'd been able to hear him, in her coma, heard him reading and speaking to her; it kept her tethered, something he only hoped to accomplish, something he bulldozed full speed ahead towards with only blind hope spurring him on. So to know he helped, in any way, to bring her back to this side of her limbo? He, for once, has no words.

Only a sense of awed gratitude.

 _Think I could love you too_.

His heart swells and seizes in his chest at the same time. Beckett's confession, long after he'd thought her breathing had evened out and she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder, had him lying there for a while longer, suddenly wide awake.

He loves this woman, is _in_ love with this incredible, tenacious woman, and that she could love him back? Maybe, if her sleepy words are in any way the truth, he might be the luckiest man in the world.

Except now she's gone, no longer in bed despite it being—7:13am.

With a grunt he pushes himself up, dragging his feet until he's in the bathroom. After he washes up, splashing some cold water on his face to wake himself up, he stumbles down the stairs.

He just hopes Beckett hasn't run, didn't regret what she did last night, what she said.

At least one half of his worry is shot down when he takes another step and a surprised smile stretches across his lips. Beckett's in his kitchen, back to him as she works at the stove, spatula in hand.

"Shit," she mumbles, taking a step back, and he can't hold back the small chuckle. She whips around, eyes wide, and offers him a sheepish grin. "Oh, hi. Morning."

He laughs, striding over to the island. "Morning. What are you doing?"

"Woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I thought I'd make breakfast," she says, waving the spatula in the general direction of the pan. "Pancakes."

"Mmm. Smells delicious."

Smiling, she turns back to the pancake still cooking. "It keeps spitting at me, so I hope I at least get _some_ good pancakes out of this." She flips it, letting out a little _ha!_ when it's not burned on the bottom.

"Not much of a cook, I take it?" he teases, leaning on his elbows.

She turns, narrowing her eyes. " _No_ , I'm actually a pretty good cook, thank you," she corrects. "Pancakes have always been the one thing that was hit or miss. It's either undercooked because I took them out too soon, not wanting to burn them, or they're burnt because I left them in too long, not wanting to undercook them."

"An all too common mistake," he agrees with a nod. "Why'd you make pancakes then? There are waffles, eggs, a bunch of stuff in there."

"Where's the challenge in that?" she counters, arching a brow.

He just looks at her, that proud grin on her face, and can't help but match it. If he looks past the light bruises still peppering her skin, now fading into a subtler, almost transparent shade of beige, it's almost as if nothing happened. She's regained the majority of her strength back, she's snarky and full of banter. She's here. She's Beckett.

It's hard to believe not too long ago she wasn't walking around at all and he was sitting beside her in the hospital room, hoping and praying that she'd wake up.

She's quiet now, finishing up on the food, and he wants so badly to talk to her about last night. To apologize, to thank her, to _discuss._ But just as he's about to open his mouth, to somehow find the words to start this conversation without scaring her off or making her uncomfortable, he's cut off by footsteps on the stairs.

"It smells wonderful down here," Martha says as she sashays into the kitchen.

Castle just barely hides his groan behind a grin. "Beckett's making breakfast."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really," she deflects, shakes her head. "It's just pancakes—"

"Nonsense, dear," Martha counters, brushing a hand on her shoulder as she heads for the refrigerator. "It's very sweet of you."

He can tell that Beckett wants to deny it, to say that this is no big deal, but his mother levels her with a look he's been on the receiving end of many times and she relents, instead opting for a small smile and a nod. Martha joins him on the stools, gripping a hot mug of coffee in her hands.

"To what do we owe your presence before eleven, Mother?" he muses, ignoring her pointed stare.

She waves a hand. "Things to do, people to see, Richard. So much mystery in the life of Martha Rodgers."

"Or not enough mystery," he mumbles, earning a smirk from Beckett and a shove from his mother.

Beckett hands them both a plate of pancakes, and they take them with appreciative thank yous. She goes back to the stove then, and he watches as she decides to make a few more, just in case anyone wants extra, or, apparently, in case the ones she's already made go cold. He tries to tell her that they can microwave them if that happens, but she'll have none of it.

Alexis comes down a few minutes later, bleary eyed and sluggish, and he lets out a laugh.

"Morning, Pumpkin." He tugs her into his side. "Late night?"

"Russian Literature paper due in a few days," she yawns, leaning against his side. "Stayed up way too late trying to finish it."

"Did you?"

"No," she shakes her head. "Almost, but at least one third of it needs to be on literature written in the original language. Translating it is taking up all of the time."

"I could help you," he hears, and looks up to find Beckett watching them, shrugging slightly when his brows raise.

Alexis perks up, pushing herself off of him. "Really?" she asks, then pauses. "You speak Russian?"

Beckett nods. "I spent a semester in Kiev between junior and senior year," she tells the girl. "So I'd be happy to help with the translating, if you wanted."

The smile on his daughter's face right now is enough to stop his heart.

"That'd be great, actually. Thanks so much."

"It's not a problem," she promises. "Do you want some pancakes?"

"Oh, sure, thank you. Can I help?"

"I got it," Beckett smiles. "It's the least I can do. I've been here long enough, breakfast is nothing."

"Beckett, we love having you here, you know. You're not intruding." It's been something he's been trying to tell her since the day she came, something he wants her to believe so badly, but he's not entirely sure she does. No, he's totally sure she doesn't.

Martha nods. "You're far from an imposition, darling."

He watches a slight blush creep onto Beckett's cheeks, knows she's grateful for the sentiment but uncomfortable with the attention.

"Kate, sit," Alexis says, nodding to the seat next to her. "Eat some of your pancakes. They're really good."

Castle grins at his daughter, then nods his agreement. "Yeah, Beckett. We've got syrup and whipped cream over here already, so come eat. They really do taste just as delicious as they smell."

She blushes, rolling her eyes, but grabs two pancakes anyway and tosses them on a plate, joins the three of them at the island. Alexis pulls her into a conversation about Russian and her time in Ukraine, and he can hear Beckett engaging, genuinely interested in Alexis's questions. He's overjoyed, if he's being honest, every time he watches the two of them interact.

His mother nudges him and gives an all too knowing smile, a lift of her brows as she takes a bite of pancake.

He knows what she's saying, and he can't even deny it.

* * *

When he walks into the guest room later that night, he stops short just of knocking on the door frame. Beckett's standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, a few packed suitcases at her feet, and his stomach sinks.

"You're all packed."

She startles, turning to find him there. " _Castle_ ," she breathes, and he chuckles an apology. "Uh, yeah. I've been cleared to be alone for a while now, so... figure I'll get out of your hair."

His legs carry him further into the room. "You're welcome to stay as long as you want, you know." He doesn't want her to leave, especially after last night, especially not _because_ of last night, but he knows she's probably been itching to get back to her apartment since she stepped foot into the loft. "You're a good housemate."

She laughs, averting her eyes. "Thank you, but it's time for me to get back to my apartment."

Yeah, he figured she'd say as much, but it doesn't make it easier. Having her here has been nice, comforting, especially since it affords him the opportunity to make sure that she is, indeed, alive and well.

"You'll probably have to throw out all of the contents of your fridge," he muses, opting for humor. "I'll bet you anything that at least three items have started growing fur."

Beckett groans, tipping her head back. "I don't even want to think about what it looks like in there."

He laughs. "That bad before you... before?"

"That styrofoam temple of takeout you commented on back during the Dunn case? If memory serves, imagine that times two, probably, all with varying past-due expiration dates."

"Yuck," he grimaces with an exaggerated shudder. "You'd win gold in an Olympics for takeout consumption, you know."

"Your judgement of my eating habits has always been noted, don't worry."

"Not judging," he corrects. "Simply... suggesting other options at times."

"While judging."

"Okay, so there's a little judging."

A silence falls over the two of them as they stand there, Castle looking at Beckett and Beckett looking at the ground. He's not sure what to do here. Offer to give her a ride back to her place? See if she'll stick around for dinner? Bite the bullet and bring up last night, just hope she doesn't shoot him down or run before he can even finish?

"Castle," Beckett breathes, breaking the silence, and his eyes meet hers. "About last night..."

Oh, okay, looks like she's doing it for him.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to deal with that—"

Her head shakes, brows furrowed. "What? No. No, that's nothing to be sorry about." She rakes a hand through her hair. "That's not..."

"If it has to do with what you said... it's okay, Beckett," he says, giving her an out. "You were half asleep, trying to comfort me, and I'm sure the exhaustion just took control. So really, it's okay." Her mouth opens, words on the tip of her tongue, but he continues. "And if that's why you're leaving, because you regret saying what you said, then please don't. We can move past it for now, if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

It would kill him, pain him deeply to just go on as if nothing had been said, but if that's what she needs right now, he'll give it to her.

She's quiet for a minute, lips pulled into a thin line, and then there are slim fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist and tugging him over to the edge of the bed. Following her lead, he takes a seat beside her, waits her out until she's ready to speak. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, tongue darting back out to soothe the afflicted area soon after. His eyes follow her movements, but then he blinks, forces himself to focus on her eyes, not her lips.

"No," is all she says for a few seconds, and he doesn't understand. "I was half asleep, you're right about that, but that's where your truths end." Pausing, she takes a deep breath and blows it out. "I meant what I said, Castle. It wasn't just exhaustion talking or me trying to comfort you by spouting a fantasy. I—maybe it wasn't how I thought I'd tell you, or when—definitely not when," she lets out a small laugh. "But I meant it."

A wide smile threatens to bloom across his face, and he tries to tamper it down, keep it under wraps until she's finished whatever it is that she has to say, but it's a lost cause. Her eyes are clear, alive, genuine, and he can't help but stare into them, memorizing every speck of gold intertwined with green, every freckle that paints the skin beneath them.

Words don't come. They won't come, won't string themselves into pretty sentences on command. Speechless. Happy.

Beckett looks down, hiding a smile of her own. "Castle, I—do you trust me?"

"Of course." That was never a question.

"Good," she exhales. "Then know... I want this. I'm not—I really do need to get back to my apartment. It's time. I'm not leaving because of what I said last night. I'm not running from that, from you or... us."

"Us," he repeats, blinking at her. "You—want there to be an us?"

She shakes her head, an hesitant, amused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Have you even been listening?" she asks with a laugh. "Yes. Being in that coma... it made me do some reflecting, made me realize that I need to live my life, that I need to go after what I want, no matter how utterly terrifying it may be. And I... I want this, _us_ , eventually, but I'm—I'm bad at this, Castle."

His hand covers hers where it rests on her knee. "So am I. Two divorces, remember? My track record isn't exactly stellar."

That gets a light chuckle. "I don't know how to do this without screwing it up," she sighs. "I don't want to screw it up. And I don't—I'm not ready. I still need time, to fully recover, to fix myself, to be... better, so I can get to a place where I _can_ be ready."

"You don't need to be better," he says immediately, fingers tipping her chin until she's facing him. "You're already extraordinary, Beckett. That hasn't, and will never change."

"Still a little broken."

"So what, who isn't? Besides, mosaics are made from broken pieces and they're still works of art."

Her lips quirk up at the edges. "So cheesy, Castle."

"I love cheese. And I happen to know that you do too, detective."

She laughs. "You got me there."

He spends a few seconds just looking at her, at this beautiful woman who's opened up to him more in the past twenty four hours than she has in the past two years, and marvels at her strength, her intelligence, her bravery. And of course, her hotness.

"Your pace, Beckett," he says then, breaking the silence, his hand still wrapped around hers. "I'll be here. I'll do whatever you want, even if that's nothing."

She lets out a relieved breath, gives a slow nod. "Thank you. For... you know. All of it."

"Always," he says easily, reveling in her grin. "Now, you think you can stay for dinner or should I give you a ride back to your apartment?"

"I think... dinner sounds nice."

"Perfect." Beaming, he extracts his hand long enough for him to stand, and then he's extending it back, tugging her from the edge of the bed. He starts towards the door, figures she's following close behind until he hears his name and he turns, finds her in the same spot. "Hmm?"

After a second of hesitation she strides towards him, pushes onto her tip toes with her hands braced on his shoulders, and smears her lips over his in a kiss. It's simple, soft, full of promises for _someday_.

By the time he recovers, with what he assumes to be a now permanent smile tattooed onto his face, he's watching her make her way down the stairs, looking at him over her shoulder with a shy smirk.

* * *

I sound like a broken record, but _thank you_.


	10. Chapter 10

Winter's reared it's head, the brisk air having replaced the heat, and the first smell of snow has since turned into the first storm of the season.

Everything's covered, beautifully white and pristine still, and little flakes continue to cascade down, condensing against each surface they come into contact with. It's one of his favorite things about living in the city, the winter, because it all ends up looking like a postcard.

Being able to walk beside Beckett in the snow is just another bonus, of course. Baby steps, still, but they've been progressing. Holding hands, movie nights at either apartment, lunch outings. Kisses, too, and he finds each one better than the last.

He'll never get sick of her, of this.

It's unconventional, especially for two people taking things slow, but it's what works for them. They've never been conventional.

Beckett's been back at the precinct for a month, after the month of mandatory leave Montgomery handed her with and passing her re-qualification test with flying colors. She hadn't even told him when she was going, didn't want to make a big deal about it if she didn't re-qualify. But she did, of course, bullet holes all right to the center.

It's just nearing lunchtime now, and he sits in the corner of the small coffee shop Beckett's asked him to meet her at during her break.

The bell chimes as the door opens, and he looks up just in time to see Beckett shuffling in, pulling off her gloves. A smile graces her lips when she spots him, and he stands, watches as she maneuvers around the other tables to greet him.

"Hey," she breathes.

He presses a kiss to her cheek. "Hey."

Beckett takes a seat across from him, tugs off her scarf and matching cream colored beanie before placing them on her lap. She rubs her hands together, breathes on them, still trying to warm them from the chill.

"Thanks for meeting me."

"Please, as if I'd pass this up," he says easily, reveling in the slight blush that appears on her skin. "Besides, you're saving me from mindless writing."

She laughs. "Mindless writing? Wasn't the whole point of you staying home today to get some _actual_ writing done?"

"Yes. And I _did_ , thank you, it's just... taking longer." At her quirked brow, he sighs, mumbles out his reasoning. "There's a dog show on."

Trying to suppress her smirk, she pulls her lips together. "I'm sorry, a dog show?"

"There are hundreds of dogs, Beckett," he defends. "Not a prissy dog show, though, it's just dogs. Having fun, running around, being dogs. Golden retrievers, pugs, poodles, corgis, _hundreds_."

Beckett leans back in her chair with a laugh, shaking her head. "Okay, okay. I guess that'd fall under the 'appropriate distraction' category."

" _Thank_ you."

"I've gotta say, I'm honored you left your wonderful world of dog showing to meet me," she teases.

"More important than a dog show, Beckett." Her head dips, and he watches her bottom lip pull in between her teeth. Adorable. "I'll go get our coffees now, and then you can tell me why we're here, yeah?"

With her nod he gets up, lingers around the display cases for a few minutes before actually getting into line.

He returns, placing a coffee and a pastry in front of her. "Here you go, m'lady."

"What's this?"

"Coffee. That thing you consume double your body weight in."

She rolls her eyes. "Castle."

"A danish, Beckett," he concedes with a smile. "Because this is, in fact, your lunch. I know there's a 98% chance you haven't eaten anything this morning, and I _also_ know you would have protested my buying you an _actual_ sandwich," he ignores her mumble, "so... danish."

"Seems like you think you know a lot there, huh," she questions, brow raised, as she takes a bite of the danish.

"I would agree, yes." He pauses. "Well, am I wrong?"

There's a disgruntled murmur. "I didn't say that."

"Ha!"

"Gloating isn't befitting, drink your coffee."

He does as she says, trades in his retort for a smirk and a sip of his coffee while she does the same, fingers breaking off small pieces of the danish to pop into her mouth. They don't say much for a few minutes, and when she's almost done with the danish she pushes it away, brushes her fingers against each other to get rid of crumbs, and looks at him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Okay," he nods. "Shoot. Not literally, of course—that's a lot of paperwork you don't want to deal with." She narrows her eyes, twisting her mouth to the side. "Sorry, sorry, go on."

She takes a deep breath. "I don't know if you know by now or not, that I don't really _do_ the holidays," she starts, and he nods, doesn't dare speak so as not to ruin the courage he knows it must be taking to even start whatever conversation this is. "But I don't, my dad and I, we don't. And I know that you're the king of them, especially Christmas, so I just wanted you to know that I... I disappear during the holidays. So don't... don't take it personally if I do."

It's not Christmas yet, not for another two weeks, but that she's telling him this, letting him know how she usually handles the holidays... it's comforting, that she's letting him in, but it breaks his heart at the same time. He knows she lost her mother around Christmas, can't even imagine how hard that'd be, both at the time and every Christmas after.

"Thank you," he says, waiting until she meets his gaze. "For telling me this. But... you don't have to disappear for the holidays, Beckett."

She gives him a sad smile. "But I do," she counters. "Ever since my mom, it's the only way I've known how to deal with Christmas. I haven't been able to handle the festivities, the holiday cheer—it's just easier to hole myself in, keep to myself until it's over."

"What about now?"

Her brows furrow. "What?"

"You said you haven't been able to handle the festivities. What about now? Think you can handle some?"

She exhales on a sigh, her head starting to shake. "Castle..."

"Hear me out, please?" He waits until she gives the faintest of nods before continuing. "I was actually going to talk to you about this soon, anyway. My mother's having a Christmas Eve shindig with people from the theater. There'll be wine, and I'll be there, and Alexis, too, and I know my mother has an affinity for the dramatics, but she never goes too overboard during the holiday parties. That's my area," he jokes. "It'll just be a nice get together that happens to be on Christmas Eve, probably with some red and green decorations. Even more probable is the singing you'll be graced with."

He doesn't realize how fast he's talking at the end, but he keeps his gaze on hers, her face unchanging except for little twitches that he can't quite decipher. But when she stays silent, he decides to go on.

"I know you don't do the holidays," he acknowledges her earlier statement. "I know. But I just—you know that I do, but not for obvious reasons. It's about the joy, the company you surround yourself with. We're friends, above everything else, Beckett, so if you don't think you're ready, please don't feel pressured. I just hate to think of you alone in your apartment, when you could be with people who care about you instead."

There, he's said it. It's done.

She nods slowly, chews on her bottom lip before attending to the afflicted area with her tongue.

"It's not that I don't want to," she starts, quietly, "it's that I don't know how it'd turn out, how I'd deal with it. I don't want to ruin it."

"You could never ruin it. We can play it by ear," he suggests. "If you decide to accompany me, we don't even have to stay the whole time. We can go, say hi to mother and Alexis, have some wine, and then go. Your pace. Always your pace."

There's a brief pause, and then, "Nothing outrageous?"

"Besides the caroling and drunk antics I'm sure my mother will impart on us?" She chuckles. "No."

"Okay," she decides, taking a breath.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I—maybe it's time I try something new. I can't promise I'll be the greatest company, though, Castle, it's still really..."

He reaches over, grabs one of her hands and wraps his fingers around hers. "Hey, I know," he promises. "I get it. This is big for you, and even attempting to break out of something you've been doing for _years_ is big, Beckett. You can even invite your dad, too, if you think he'd want to get out."

She laughs, nods. "I'll think about it. He might have plans up at the cabin, but I'll ask."

"Okay."

Returning to the second half of her abandoned danish, she picks at the edges, bringing her finger to her mouth to lick off the icing that's stuck to her skin. She's killing him, slowly, and the worst part about it is that she's completely unaware.

"Shit," she mumbles, and he snaps out of it. "I've gotta go."

He looks at his phone, and yeah, it's definitely past the time she should've left to head back to the precinct. Beckett fumbles with her trash, but he just nudges it out of her hands.

"Go," he says, nodding towards the door. "Go, I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," she breathes, wrapping her scarf back around her neck, tugging the beanie onto her head. Rounding the small table, she leans over him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before she turns on her heels. "I'll talk to you tonight. Get some writing done," she adds with a pointed finger.

He grins, nods. "I will. Now get goin'."

She smiles over her shoulder and his gaze follows her as she goes, through the door, the bell chiming once more, and back out into the streets.

* * *

As Christmas Eve gets closer, he can feel Beckett tensing, avoiding him, retreating back into her Beckett shell that he's tried so hard to coax her out of. He understands, knows it's because of his mother's party she'd agreed to go to, because she hasn't celebrated Christmas in so long. He gets it.

So, the afternoon before the party, he corners her in the break room with a cup of coffee.

"Here," he says, holding the mug like a peace offering.

Her lips form a tight, closed-lipped smile. "Thanks."

"Listen, Beckett, about tonight—"

"Castle, I'm..."

He shakes his head. "We don't have to go," he says. "We can order Chinese, have a quiet dinner. Or, you can continue your tradition. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you had to go, I didn't mean to."

Her eyes fall closed, her head shaking, and she places the mug on the counter. "That's not what..." She takes a breath. "You didn't make me feel like I had to. I wanted to. I _want_ to. I just—I don't know why I'm getting freaked out."

"Nothing wrong with that," he assures, moving closer. "Like I said, you don't have to go. Not if it's too soon."

"No," she says confidently. "No, we already told your mother, and Alexis, and I need to do this."

He nods. "Okay. We'll go. But if it's too much, let me know?"

"I will." Picking her mug back up, she leads him out of the break room, back over to her desk. "Is this party really formal, or more casual, or somewhere in between?"

"Fancy casual?" It comes out as more of a question, and she just looks at him. "Look, anything you wear is going to be perfect."

Beckett rolls her eyes. "I don't want to show up in jeans and a sweater if everyone else is in evening wear, Castle."

"Point taken. Just wear something... nice." When it looks like she's about to protest, again, he holds up a hand. "I _mean_ , something that's just north of casual but wouldn't be out of place in a casual gathering."

Sighing, she bites at her lip. "I'll find something."

"It's a Christmas Eve party, Beckett, just wear something comfortable. Mother wouldn't care if you came in jeans, anyway." Glancing down at his watch, he lets out an exaggerated _oh_ and stands, catching his partner's attention. "I have a few errands to run before tonight."

"If you even _think_ about going dress shopping—"

He salutes. "Wouldn't dream of it, Detective." That's a lie. He would dream of it, has dreamt of it multiple times since he bought her that red dress two years ago. "Non-clothing errands only." She huffs. "Should I pick you up at your apartment, or do you want to meet at the loft?"

"I'll meet you at the loft. I have errands to run, too," she teases. "7:30 okay?"

"Perfect."

* * *

His errands consist of buying a new Christmas tie (okay, so he lied about non-clothing errands only, but they're for _him_ , not her, so it doesn't count) because he forgot he'd lost one and wearing the same one from last years party is a big no-go, and a few more ingredients so he can make cookies and maybe some little cakes for the party. Maybe. If not, he picked up pre-made ones.

And if he does bake, hey, they'll have some snacks for later. It's a win-win.

It's almost seven, and he stands at the island, hands braced on the counter as he contemplates getting changed first and _then_ starting the baking process, to cut out changing time later, or baking first and then changing.

"Bake first, dad," he hears, and looks up to find Alexis sliding into the kitchen, heading towards the fridge.

"Whatever do you mean? How did you know—"

Alexis laughs. "You did this last year. You changed before you started baking the cake, remember? And then you got flour _all_ over your sweater and had to scramble to find an 'equally festive' one last minute." He grumbles, and she pats him on the arm with the hand not holding a water bottle. "Bake first."

"Baking first," he agrees quietly, checking to make sure he has everything he needs. "Care to help, baby bird?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry, dad, no can do. I have to get ready."

"You look ready to me," he says.

"Dad, please. This is not what I'm wearing, and I have to put on makeup and do my hair." She stretches on her tip toes and places a kiss to his cheek. "If I finish early I'll come down and help, okay?"

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Fine."

"And don't burn the house down. Or the cookies," she reminds in a mock-serious tone as she ascends the stairs.

He lets out a breath once she's gone and he turns back to his ingredients. His little girl isn't his little girl anymore; no, she's a young lady, much more into makeup and her appearance now than she was in years past. He thinks she looks just beautiful without it, but apparently it doesn't count because he's the dad.

Reaching into the bag, he grabs all of the necessary components and sets them on the counter. Granulated sugar, brown sugar, butter, vanilla, eggs, flour (to go in the cookies, not on his person), salt, baking soda, and, of course, the most important ingredient of all: chocolate chips.

It would've been easier to buy cookie dough, or the mix, and just make them that way, but where's the fun in that? Making them from scratch is much more exciting.

He preheats the oven to 375 and makes the dough, mixing all of the ingredients just how the directions he's googled tells him to, and starts plucking handfuls out by the tablespoon to roll into little balls. Once they're all placed as evenly as they possibly can be on the cookie sheet, he pushes the tray into the oven and sets the timer.

There's a knock on the door and he checks the time: 7:26. He didn't even realize it'd taken him a half hour to get everything out and get the cookies in.

Throwing the dish towel over his shoulder after brushing off some flour, because it was silly of him to think _none_ of it would end up on his clothes, he bounces over to entryway and opens the door. He opens his mouth to greet their guest, but his breath is lodged in his throat the moment he does.

It's Beckett. He doesn't know why it didn't register that it'd be Beckett; she'd said 7:30, and the actual party doesn't even start until 9 because his mother is very serious about her 'fashionably late' entrance and something about how _real_ parties don't start until after 8:00.

"You look... wow," he exhales, and she chuckles, that little breathy sound that he loves so much, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she dips her dead. She's in a maroon dress, so perfect for Christmas it almost kills him, with quarter length sleeves and glitter that sparkles covering the entirety of it. But not a cheap looking glitter, no, it's classy, shiny enough to be noticed and to shimmer in the light, but matte enough to not attract the wrong kind of attention. It's tight, hugs her curves in all the right ways, and he's going to need a few seconds to catch his breath. "Really, beautiful."

She tucks a piece of curled hair behind her ear, eyes finally rising to meet his. "Thank you. You're not too bad yourself. Flour really suits you."

He looks down, notices the splotches of flour he'd missed when he wiped the rest off, and laughs. "It's a new look I'm trying out," he jokes, then waves an arm behind him. "Come, come in."

It's not until he hears the clicking that he looks down, notices the black, strappy high heels. She's going to kill him. She's been in his loft for thirty seconds and he's already a dead man.

"Smells great in here," she says as she hands over her jacket, murmuring a quiet thank you. "Baking?"

"Hence the flour, yes. Cookies should be done in... five minutes. Time to start on the mini cakes."

She hums. "Well aren't we the baker today?"

Rounding the island again, he switches out his counter-top, replacing the cookie ingredients with the ones needed for the cakes. Beckett follows, taking a seat on the other side of the island. When he pulls out a bowl of fruit from the fridge, she raises a brow.

"They're mini fruit cakes. Christmas style."

"What makes them Christmas style?"

"Aside from the decorative frosting? Alcohol."

Her head dips back, amusement on her face. "What?"

"The fruit's soaked in rum." His eyebrows waggle. "Only like two tablespoons, but it gives 'em a kick."

He gets to work on the mini cakes, struggling slightly when he has to mix everything together in a bowl with the electric mixer. He turns it on and it goes everywhere, a yelp escaping his throat as he hurries to turn it off.

"I think... I need a bigger bowl."

Beckett laughs, a light, carefree sound. She does her best to conceal it, her hand raising to cover her mouth, but it does little to help. He's covered in mixture now, and he darts his tongue out to the side, tastes some of it.

"Not too bad, actually," he says, and she's still struggling to keep a straight face. "You think this is funny?"

"Me? No, never. Not funny at all."

"Why don't you come over here and try it?"

She huffs. "I'm not baking in this dress, Castle."

His face lights up, and he holds up a finger and makes his way into his room, leaving behind a confused looking Beckett and a kitchen full of dough and flour. When he comes back, he's holding a large, gray t-shirt in his hands.

"Put this on," he tells her, handing it over. "It'll protect the dress."

Her mouth drops open. "You're not serious."

"I mean, if you don't think you can do better, then—"

With that her lips purse, eyes narrowed. He knew she'd take that as a challenge. "Fine," she mutters. "You're on. I _know_ I can do better."

He lets out a low _oooh_ as she stalks into the kitchen, heels and all. She looks adorable with his t-shirt on over the dress, long sleeves to cover the dress from her hips up, her hair tugged back into a low bun that he knows she'll pull out as soon as they're done.

They work together then, and by the time the cakes are in the oven there's more flour covering the both of them than the counter top, the majority of it on the front of Beckett's shirt. They both have flour on their faces, all over Castle's cheeks and Beckett's cheeks and forehead.

They're laughing as they finish, and Castle grabs one last bit of flour on his finger. When Beckett turns back towards him, he flicks it at her, bops her on the nose until it's covered too. Her mouth drops open and she lunges forward, but he manages to twist her, to wrap his arms around her waist and keep her from getting any more on any part of his body other than his arms.

"Okay, dad, I can—" The two of them still at Alexis's voice, and Castle spins the both of them so they're facing the stairs. "Detective Beckett, hi."

Beckett untangles herself from his arms. "Hi, Alexis," she says, a blush on her flour covered cheeks. "You look beautiful."

The girl smiles. "Thank you. You look... very decorative," she goes for, and Beckett laughs. "Looks like you've got this all under control, dad."

He recognizes the smirk she's trying to hide, the subtle lift of her brow and the amusement in her tone. He just barely suppresses the groan, but manages a smile.

"We do, thank you, Alexis," he laughs. "We'll just... clean this up now. Cookies are done, cakes in the oven. You want to do the icing when they're done?"

The girl nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. You guys need help, or?"

Beckett shakes her head. "Oh, no, that's okay. Your dad made the mess, so he can clean it up."

" _I_ made the mess?" he squeaks.

"You started it!"

"I did not!"

"You threw flour at my face," she counters, arms crossed. "Considering the lack of confectionery on my face before that, I do say that'd constitute _starting_ it."

Alexis moves between them. "Now, now, kids. Should I separate you two?"

"We're good, Pumpkin," Castle says after a ten second stare down with Beckett. "We'll go clean up, you watch the cakes, will you?"

She nods, and Beckett follows him through the office and into his bedroom.

She strips off the sullied t-shirt and passes it back to him. "Thanks for the loan."

"Anytime." He grabs it back, tossing it in the wash. "You can take the bathroom first."

He lays out his clothes while she's in the bathroom, and then she's back, hair pulled back down, curls still in tact, and the flour effectively removed from her face. Still beautiful. She murmurs something about helping Alexis in the kitchen, and leaves him to get dressed.

When she's gone, he can't suppress the wide grin that overtakes his face. Cooking together, food fights, laughter.

That's how he pictures their mornings together.

* * *

"Katherine, darling, you look stunning," Martha greets a while after she's finally made her entrance, a good twenty minutes after the party's started. _Fashionably late, dear_. "I'm so pleased you could make it."

Beckett smiles. "Of course," she nods. "Thank you for having me. And my dad apologizes for not being able to make it, but sends his holiday greetings."

"He's a good man, your father. We'll have to have you two over for a dinner soon."

"That'd be nice," she agrees. "It's quite the group of people you've got here, Martha."

Martha laughs, surveying the room. It's full of her theater comrades, actors, actresses, directors, and everyone in between, as well as just a few family friends and others they know. No one is dressed as lively as she is, but it does seem that would be hard to do.

"Mother's got quite the group of friends, yes," Castle chimes in with a laugh.

She swats at his shoulder. "My son, the comedian. Anyway, it was lovely seeing you, my dear," she says to Beckett, squeezing her arm. "I must mingle, but please, don't be a stranger."

And then she's gone, sashaying to another guest with a wine glass in her hand, and Castle sidles up to her side. With a hand low on her back, he guides her to where they have a table set up of the desserts and drinks.

"Wine?"

She nods, taking the glass gratefully. "The cakes came out pretty good," she says, picking one from the pile and taking a small bite. "The rum really makes it, I must admit."

"See? You mocked my rum soaked fruit, but it's _good_."

"To be fair, I never said it wouldn't be good."

There are Christmas decorations everywhere, little Santas set up on most surfaces, some reindeer, presents, snow globes, Christmas lights. Just about everything that could be in a household for the holiday, it's here.

And, as per his warnings, a little over an hour into the party, his mother sufficiently tipsy, she calls the crowd to a hushed silence only to announce the beginning of a carol. There's singing, most extremely off-key and out of tune, and it fills the loft. When he looks over, Beckett's a little tense, but she's singing along softly, watching on as his mother takes center stage.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, leaning in close to her ear.

She snaps out of whatever trance she was in, her shoulders loosening. "What? Yeah," she says after a second. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Sure," she says, offers him a smile, then turns back to the scene in front of him.

Her singing gets louder, the smile on her face brighter, and he thinks he falls a little deeper.

* * *

Around 11:30 they duck out, opting for a walk over the second coming of a chorus line, Christmas carol style. The air is frigid now, their breaths visible with each exhale, and icicles hang from telephone poles, the bumpers and side mirrors of cars, awnings. Snowflakes continue to fall, breaking against their clothes, and he watches as they get caught in Beckett's hair.

The white is a stark contrast from the brown of her curls, but she looks adorable, cheeks and nose tinged pink from the cold.

He keeps close to her, not wanting to hover, but she's still wearing heels and it's icy, and the last thing he wants is for her to fall. That'd ruin any moment, for sure, and he's not a fan of injured Beckett. He's had enough of that to last a lifetime.

"We could always find a small coffee shop to duck into," he suggests.

"What, can't handle the cold, Castle?" she teases with a smirk, even through the chatter of her teeth.

"I can handle the cold, my dear detective. I'm merely concerned for you. You _are_ still in a dress."

She lets out a dramatic gasp. "Am I? Damn, I had no idea."

Her dress is short, not indecently so but short enough that her trench is only a few inches short of covering the whole thing. She must be freezing.

"Seriously, Beckett, you're shaking. Maybe we should go somewhere warm." He moves closer, puts a hand on her shoulder to slowly lower them. "Hunching makes you colder."

"I can deal with the cold," she assures him. "It's beautiful out right now. I don't want to go in just yet."

He smiles, nods. "Alright," he says, but huddles in, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Gonna keep you warm this way, then."

They walk through the streets, lit up by nothing but varying Christmas lights and the street lights overhead, illuminating the city in a golden glow. It bounces off the snow, makes everything look more ethereal. It really is beautiful, but he spends most of his time watching Beckett watch the lights instead, the way her face softens, thoughtful.

"That was nice," she says, breaking the silence. "Your mother certainly was the life of the party."

He huffs a laugh. "That's mother, all right."

The park is darker, lit up by only Christmas lights as they wander through. It's empty save for a few people scattered throughout; this might be his favorite part of going at night. It's quiet, peaceful.

"Thank you," she breathes then. "For tonight. For pushing me out of my comfort zone, for pushing me to come."

"I didn't mean to push—"

"No, not in a bad way. Good. Only good, Castle. If you hadn't asked me, I would be holed up in my apartment right now, alone, curled on my couch with a box of takeout. And I don't need to do that anymore." She takes a breath. "I can... I can begin to celebrate, slowly, without feeling guilty, and that's—just, thank you."

He doesn't really know what to say to that, doesn't have the pretty words right now, so he just tightens his hold on her, presses a kiss to her head and murmurs a quiet, "of course," into her hair.

He doesn't pay much attention to the scenery for the rest of their walk, just the slight shake of her body at his side, the way the light reflects off of her cheekbones. As much as he loves being out here with her, just the two of them, her shaking is getting worse, her teeth practically slamming against each other.

"We should really find somewhere warm," he says, the hand at her shoulder rubbing back and forth, trying to force some of his warmth through the fabric of her jacket.

"Okay," she agrees, and then she's stopping, staring at him. "Let's go inside."

Castle stops, looking around, and then he follows her gaze, realizes... "This is your apartment."

"Yes, it is."

"We walked to your apartment?"

"Again, a very astute observation," she teases, moving closer until she's pushed up against him, her gloved fingers playing with the collar of his jacket, and his breathing stutters. "Come on."

He manages a chuckle. "Beckett..." One button pops open, and she looks up at him with a quirked brow. "Baby steps, remember? What about taking it slow?"

She sighs, dropping her head to his chest for a few seconds before pulling back. "Tonight made me realize that sometimes, despite how scary it might be, diving into something new can be a good thing. But you'll never know unless you go for it, right?" He's not sure his heart is beating. All he can do is stare. Is he breathing at all? "I don't want to take it slow anymore, Castle."

His hands fall to her waist. "What do you want?"

He pulls her closer and she stretches on her tip toes, covers his lips with hers in a kiss that leaves them both a little breathless. When they separate, Beckett grasps his hands and tugs him towards the door to her building, the smirk evident even with her bottom lip tugged between her teeth.

"I want you to warm me up."

* * *

I sincerely apologize for the wait on this one. I ended up having to re-write it, and as I've been sick the past two weeks I only just had the time (and energy) to get it done.

Prompt (slightly altered): Castle returns from the Hamptons to find that Beckett's in the hospital for whatever reason

Well, we've reached the end, folks. I'm still overwhelmed by all of the enthusiasm and support you guys have given this little story, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I've enjoyed putting it out there. I can't thank you all enough for your sweet words, they really do mean more to me than you know. This may be where this journey finishes, but I hope you'll stick with me as I play with future stories. All my gratitude.

Until next time!


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